Si* 


THE   DAYS 
OF   JEANNE   D'ARC 


By  Permission  of  Braun.  Clement  &  Co.,  New  York  and  Paris. 


JEANNE  D'ARC 

FROM   THE    STATUE    BY   PAUL   DUBOIS 


THE   DAYS 
OF  JEANNE  DARC 


BY 


MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE   ROMANCE   OF   DOLLARD " 
"THE  WHITE  ISLANDER,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1897 


Copyright,  1897, 
By  THE  CENTURY  Co. 


THE  DE  VINNE  PRESS. 


THIS    BOOK    IS    DEDICATED 

TO    A    MUCH-LOVED    FRENCH-AMERICAN    WOMAN 
MRS.  CHARLES    HENROTIN 


i^' 
S 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 


LL  France  was  lighted  by  an  early  rising 
moon,  and  the  village  of  Bury-la-C6te, 
seated  on  a  high  ridge,  seemed  to  glitter 
just  beneath  the  sky.  There  was  frost  on 
the  square,  low  church  tower,  on  tight-shut  windows, 
and  on  the  manure-heaps  carefully  raked  into  place 
beside  the  doors,  and  held  by  stone  barriers  to  mellow 
for  the  spring  fields. 

It  was  a  cold  night  even  for  January.  Durand 
Laxart  decided,  as  he  unchained  his  horse,  to  let  the 
cart  stand  outside  the  archway,  and  lead  the  poor 
beast  directly  into  its  snug  stable  in  the  end  of  the 
house. 

He  came  out  again  into  the  moonlight  and  walked 
around  the  muck-barrier  to  his  own  door.  He  was 
proud  of  his  new  house.  It  had  an  ogival  portal,  and 
above  the  little  window  was  an  ornament  in  stone 
shaped  like  a  clover-leaf.  But  no  light  shone  through 
i  1 


2  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

this  window,  for  a  long,  dark  passage  led  to  the  inner 
room,  where  his  wife  and  new-born  child  lay  asleep  in 
their  cupboard  bed.  Durand  took  off  his  wooden 
shoes,  and  carrying  them  in  his  hand,  tiptoed  over 
the  hard,  white  earthen  floor.  The  woman's  brown 
peasant  face,  strangely  bleached  and  refined  by  mother- 
hood, awed  him  by  its  contrast  with  the  coarse  wool  of 
her  bed.  The  bed  doors  stood  wide  open,  their  clean 
panels  shining  in  the  firelight.  A  whole  bundle  of 
fagots  blazed  in  the  chimney.  The  white  stone  mantel, 
shaped  somewhat  like  a  penthouse,  and  the  scoured 
hearth  flags,  brightened  the  dark  room,  for  there  was 
only  one  window,  looking  toward  the  valley  of  the 
Meuse. 

He  scented  his  supper  in  an  iron  pot  on  a  tripod  be- 
fore the  fire.  The  table  stood  near  the  hearth,  holding 
a  large  knife  with  which  to  cut  his  bread,  a  wooden 
drinking-cup/and  a  flask  of  red  wine ;  for  in  this  valley 
of  the  Meuse  contending  armies  had  not  trampled  down 
the  vines. 

The  woman  and  the  baby  continued  to  sleep.  Du- 
rand slipped  on  his  wooden  shoes  again,  and  opened 
a  back  door  into  his  garden.  There  was  a  steep  flight 
of  stone  steps,  down  which  he  thumped  toward  a  tile- 
roofed  oven.  The  garden  sloped  downward,  and 
though  it  had  the  desolation  of  winter  upon  it,  his 
eye  selected  the  very  spot  where  he  would  soon  begin 
to  dig  and  plant.  Pausing,  with  his  wooden  shoes 
wide  apart  on  the  slippery  descent,  he  gazed  down  the 
south-stretching  valley,  the  loveliest  valley  of  the 
Vosges,  streaked  with  ribbons  of  stubble  left  by  the 
scanty  crops.  Plowing  and  sowing  had  been  irregular 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  3 

work  since  the  English  began  to  trouble  France.  The 
soil  had  a  whiteness  not  given  to  it  by  winter  rime ; 
but  in  the  next  villages,  hid  from  him  by  a  shoulder 
of  the  hill,— Goussaincourt  and  Greux  and  Domremy, 
—there  were  black  gaps  made  by  raiding  Burgundians. 
The  Meuse,  in  summer  almost  hid  among  its  marshy 
islands,  now  spread  from  bank  to  bank,  showing  a  line 
of  ice  along  its  edges.  The  course  of  the  Meuse  was 
called  the  march  of  Lorraine  and  Champagne,  and  had 
long  been  a  place  of  contention  between  kings  of 
France  and  dukes  of  Burgundy,  lying  as  it  did  between 
the  two  portions  of  Burgundy.  The  people  of  this 
march  had  no  feudal  lord  between  them  and  the  king ; 
they  were  vassals  to  the  King  of  France  alone.  This 
bred  a  serious  and  stubborn  loyalty,  which  kept  them 
bound  to  their  sovereign,  though  isolated  from  him. 
For  in  that  year  of  grace  1429  the  kingdom  of  France 
had  receded  before  the  invading  English  until  its 
northern  line  lay  far  below  the  ancient  capital  of  Paris, 
and  included  only  the  provinces  of  Dauphine,  Langue- 
doc,  Bourbonnais,  PAuvergne,  Berri,  Poitou,  Sain- 
tange,  Touraine,  and  Orleans.  And  some  of  these 
were  crumbling  before  the  incoming  tide.  All  the 
richest  provinces  and  nearly  all  the  seaports  were  held 
by  the  English.  To  go  into  France  from  the  march 
of  Lorraine  at  that  day  meant  to  traverse  a  wide  coun- 
try overrun  by  aliens. 

The  far  ridge  beyond  the  Meuse  seemed  to  draw 
near  in  moonlight.  All  at  once  there  was  a  sweet 
clamor  of  bells  drifting  from  Greux  and  Domremy, 
and  the  church  of  Bury-la-C6te  joined  in,  chiming  the 
angelus.  The  man  pulled  at  his  cap  with  a  gesture  of 


4  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

reverence,  and  slouched  into  an  attitude  of  devotion. 
He  felt  constrained  to  pray,  for  at  the  sound  of  the 
bells  his  wife's  cousin,  Jeanne  d'Arc,  came  out  of  the 
oven-shed  with  a  huge  ring  of  bread  in  her  hands. 
She  slipped  the  ring  upon  her  arm  and  joined  her 
palms,  bending  her  forehead  to  them.  While  the 
angelus  rang  no  man  could  speak  a  word  to  little  Je- 
hannette.  Though  she  was  full  of  life,  Durand  some- 
times thought  her  unnaturally  religious  for  so  young 
a  creature.  But  it  made  her  very  handy  when  one 
had  sickness  in  the  house.  He  was  better  pleased  to 
have  her  take  care  of  his  wife  than  to  have  his  own 
loud-voiced  mother  continually  about. 

As  the  bells  ceased,  a  faint  wailing  in  the  house 
called  them.  Jeanne  put  her  ring  of  bread  on  the 
table,  and  took  up  the  baby,  while  the  mother,  roused 
from  sleep,  answered  her  husband  with  yawning  re- 
sponses : 

"  It  is  nothing  but  drowsiness  that  keeps  me  abed. 
I  shall  be  up  at  my  spinning  by  to-morrow." 

"Not  to-morrow,  Aveline.  Isabel  Romee  says  we 
may  keep  Jehannette  two  weeks  more.  Let  her  spin 
for  thee.  She  can  spin  and  sew  as  well  as  any  maid 
of  her  age  in  the  Meuse  valley." 

"But  if  I  am  able  to  spin,  why  should  n't  I?  A 
man  never  thinks  any  woman  can  get  tired  of  waiting 
on  him.  Jehannette  may  like  to  stir  from  the  house 
while  she  stays."  Aveline  drew  her  hand  down  his 
winter-reddened  cheek. 

"  Lie  still  yet  to-night,"  he  insisted ;  so  she  dozed 
again,  while  he  cut  his  black  bread  and  emptied  the 
pot  into  his  platter.  Then  he  sat  down  comfortably  to 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC  5 

his  supper.  The  earthen  floor,  as  hard  as  rock,  had 
been  brushed  speckless  with  a  broom  of  soft  river- 
grasses.  Small  joists,  crossed  by  large  beams  over- 
head, so  low  that  they  almost  touched  his  hair  when 
he  stood  up,  were  rich  brown  in  the  firelight.  There 
was  no  candle  lighted.  Threads  of  flame  wove  them- 
selves among  the  fagot  sticks  and  rushed  up  the  chim- 
ney-back. Jeanne  sat  with  the  child's  swaddled  feet 
toward  the  blaze,  and  after  blinking  at  the  joists  it  sunk 
into  the  stupid  content  of  its  kind.  Her  face  was  so 
young  that  this  maternal  care  was  like  the  attitude  of 
a  child  nursing  its  painted  doll. 

Durand  poured  out  his  wine,  and  plunged  his  fingers 
into  his  dish.  He  glanced  at  the  girl,  but  her  eyes 
were  on  the  fire,  and  suddenly  he  noticed  under  them 
the  hollows  made  by  weeping.  Her  face  was  oval  in 
shape,  and  the  outline  of  the  cheek  never  changed, 
but  firelight  showed  the  pallor  of  dejection.  The  laced 
bodice  of  her  red  peasant  dress  did  not  cover  the  top 
of  her  neck ;  it  was  white  and  childlike  compared  with 
the  neck  of  her  cousin  in  the  bed.  Her  hair  was 
twisted  into  a  long  knot,  but  it  flew  out  in  halos.  The 
hollow  between  lower  lip  and  chin  was  deeply  indented, 
and  her  chin  was  pointed  rather  than  round.  " 

"What  ails  thee,  Jehannette?"  inquired  Durand, 
with  quick  sympathy  and  some  dread  that  she  had 
grown  tired  of  waiting  on  him. 

Jeanne  visibly  repressed  herself.  Instead  of  an- 
swering she  inquired  of  him: 

"  Did  you  see  my  father  in  Domremy  to-day  ? " 

"  I  saw  him ;  ho  is  well." 

"  And  my  mother  ? " 


6  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

"  Yes ;  she  is  well." 

"AndPierrelo?" 

"  Yes ;  he  sent  a  kiss  for  each  cheek." 

"Mengette  and  Jacquemine,  you  also  saw  them?" 

"I  saw  them  all,  and  they  all  asked  when  you 
were  coming  home ;  but  Isabel  hath  promised  you  to 
us  a  little  longer.  It  is  not  so  far  from  Domremy  to 
Bury-la-C6te,"  argued  Durand;  "not  two  leagues, 
though  they  be  slow  leagues  through  stiff  clay 
across  the  prairie.  Your  foot-path  along  the  hills  is 
quicker." 

"  But  it  is  farther  to  Vaucouleurs,"  said  Jeanne ;  "  I 
must  go  to  Vaucouleurs  to-morrow." 

"And  what  would  you  do  at  Vaucouleurs?"  Du- 
rand's  eye  twinkled.  "Would  you  go  to  take  back 
what  you  said  at  Toul?" 

Jeanne's  hazel  eyes  reflected  his  image  with  simple 
candor. 

"  No ;  I  will  never  take  back  what  I  said  at  Toul." 

"  But  Bertrand  de  Poulengy  is  a  fine  young  fellow. 
I  have  heard  if  we  knew  more  about  him  it  would  turn 
out  he  was  born  in  a  chateau." 

"  He  should  have  learned  to  speak  the  truth  there. 
He  did  a  wicked  thing  to  take  a  public  oath  I  had 
given  him  my  word.  I  had  to  go  to  Toul  to  deny  it 
before  the  magistrate.  It  was  very  cruel  of  Bertrand 
de  Poulengy." 

"He  wanted  thee,"  chuckled  Durand.  Nothing 
amuses  a  man  so  much  as  another  man's  discomfiture 
in  courtship.  "  And  thy  father  and  mother,  they  were 
willing." 

"  But  I  cannot  cumber  myself  with  marriage,"  said 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC  7 

Jeanne.  Her  repressed  weeping  broke  out.  "Com- 
pere 1  Durand,  I  must  go  into  France." 

The  man  paused  in  his  eating,  holding  the  meat  be- 
tween his  jaws.  He  had  heard  of  this  matter  before ; 
but  it  had  not  pierced  his  marrow  with  that  sweetness 
of  voice  and  that  cry  of  necessity.  "I  must  go  into 
France ! "  Jeanne's  voice  was  spoken  about  in  the 
valley.  When  she  called  to  one  at  a  distance,  the  bell 
notes  expanded,  filling  the  air ;  but  in  talk  she  spoke 
low.  The  woman  in  the  cupboard  bed  was  aware  only 
of  the  man's  hoarser  note. 

"  Jehannette,  thy  father  has  told  me  he  would  drown 
thee  with  his  own  hands  rather  than  have  thee  go  away 
with  men-at-arms." 

Jeanne  put  out  one  palm  to  stop  him.  The  firelight 
showed  her  long  fingers  and  compact  wrist.  Tears 
rushed  down  her  face. 

"  My  father— my  dear  father !  I  would  rather  be  in 
the  fields  with  him,  or  by  my  mother's  side  spinning, 
than  anywhere  in  France.  But  I  can  no  longer  help 
it.  For  three  years  I  have  been  commanded,  and  now 
I  must  go." 

"  Who  commanded  thee  ? "  asked  her  relative,  hold- 
ing a  black  bit  of  liver  in  his  fingers. 

"  Attend,"  said  Jeanne,  in  the  manner  of  the  peas- 
ants of  Domremy.  Her  childish  face  stiffened  with 
awe.  "  I  was  about  thirteen  when  I  had  a  voice  from 
God  to  help  me  rule  myself.  The  first  time  I  heard  it 
I  was  very  much  afraid.  It  was  in  my  father's  garden 
at  noon  in  the  summer.  I  had  fasted  the  day  before. 
The  voice  came  from  the  right  hand  of  the  church, 
1  Godfather,  friend,  or  crony. 


8  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

and  there  was  a  great  light  with  it.  Afterward,  if  I 
was  in  a  wood  I  heard  the  voice  coming  to  me.  When 
I  had  heard  it  three  times  I  knew  it  was  the  voice  of 
an  angel.  It  has  always  kept  me  well,  and  I  under- 
stand perfectly  what  it  says." 

"What  does  it  say?"  whispered  the  man.  He 
obeyed  habit,  and  put  the  bite  into  his  mouth,  but 
held  it  there  with  the  other  meat.  Old  Choux  in 
Domremy,  Jeanne's  nearest  neighbor,  who  was  so  old 
that  people  had  forgotten  his  age,  was  claiming  to  have 
a  voice  also. 

"It  says,"— she  lifted  both  hands  and  threw  them 
out  before  her,—"  'Daughter  of  God,  go,  go !  I  will 
be  thine  aid.' " 

The  baby  slept  in  its  bands  on  her  lap.  The  fagots 
showed  that  her  face  was  white.  Durand  ground  his 
food  and  swallowed  it  with  a  gulp;  he  leaned  his 
elbows  on  the  table. 

"  Pucelle,1  did  you  see  anything  in  the  light  ? " 

Jeanne's  voice  became  a  thread  of  sound,  one  chord, 
on  which  she  vibrated  to  him : 

"I  saw  St.  Michael;  I  saw  St.  Catherine  and  St. 
Margaret." 

"  But  how  did  you  know  it  was  St.  Michael,  or  St. 
Catherine  and  St.  Margaret  ? " 

"  At  first  I  did  not  know,  but  St.  Michael  told  me ; 
he  said :  '  Go  into  France ;  St.  Catherine  and  St.  Mar- 
garet will  aid  thee.'  I  said  on  my  knees :  '  How  can 
I  go?  I  know  nothing  of  arms.'  He  answered: 
'  Daughter  of  God,  go,  go !  I  will  be  thine  aid.' " 

Though  Durand  Laxart  had  never  seen  visions,  and 

i  Maid. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  9 

his  wife  Aveline  had  never  seen  visions  or  heard  voices, 
he  felt  a  surging  of  the  blood  which  seemed  to  clear 
his  brain  for  new  impressions.  Jeanne  saw  that  he 
believed  in  her.  The  strained  whiteness  of  her  face 
became  a  softer  pallor,  and  she  wiped  her  eyes. 

"  Compere,  have  you  not  always  heard  that  a  woman 
would  ruin  France,  and  a  maid  from  the  march  of 
Lorraine  would  rise  up  and  save  it  1 n 

Durand  nodded  his  head.  He  had  heard  this  pro- 
phecy all  his  life,  and  it  had  already  become  a  common 
saying  that  Isabel  of  Bavaria,  the  queen,  was  that 
woman. 

"  The  Queen  of  France  is  that  woman,"  said  Jeanne ; 
"  she  has  denied  her  own  son,  and  sold  us  all  to  the 
English.  Compere,  myself— I  am  that  maid  from  the 
march  of  Lorraine.  I  was  born  for  this  purpose.  You 
must  take  me  to  Vaucouleurs,  to  Robert  de  Baudri- 
court,  and  ask  him  to  send  me  into  France.  I  have  to 
raise  the  siege  of  Orleans  and  take  the  Dauphin 
Charles  to  be  crowned  at  Rheims." 

Durand  sat  staring  at  her  without  speaking.  He 
poured  out  a  cupful  of  the  thin,  sour  wine,  and  drank 
it  down. 

She  had  to  raise  the  siege  of  Orleans,  and  take  the 
Dauphin  Charles  to  be  crowned  at  Rheims ! 

It  was  high  time  the  dauphin  was  crowned  at 
Rheims,  that  ancient  city  of  coronation,  where  nearly 
every  king  of  France  since  Clovis  had  been  conse- 
crated. No  subject  accepted  a  king  until  he  had  been 
crowned  at  Rheims.  The  loyal  people  of  Poitiers  had 
put  a  crown  upon  Charles's  head,  but  his  enemies 
laughed  at  him,  and  called  him  the  little  King  of 


10  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AEC 

Bourges.  And  it  was  high  time  some  power  raised 
the  siege  of  Orleans— Orleans,  the  heart  of  France, 
the  key  to  the  southern  provinces,  the  last  stronghold 
of  the  loyal  party. 

News  traveled  slowly,  but  in  those  days  political 
facts  were  stamped  on  a  peasant's  mind  by  the  horse- 
hoofs  of  raiders.  The  Duke  of  Orleans  was  a  prisoner 
in  England.  His  people,  in  their  extremity,  had  ap- 
pealed to  his  enemy  and  kinsman,  the  Duke  of ,  Bur- 
gundy, to  stand  betwixt  them  and  the  English,  and 
make  their  territory  neutral.  The  Duke  of  Burgundy 
attempted  to  do  this,  but  his  distrustful  allies  permitted 
him  to  protect  no  French  territory  except  his  own.  It 
was  hard  to  be  the  greatest  peer  of  France,  the  one 
whose  right  it  was  to  place  the  king's  crown  on  his 
head  and  do  him  first  homage,  and  yet  to  be  con- 
strained by  personal  revenge  to  join  hands  with  he- 
reditary foes  and  invaders.  The  Duke  of  Burgundy 
was  now  sulking  in  his  own  domains,  and  the  English 
intrenchments  were  closing  around  Orleans. 

"  Compere,"  continued  Jeanne,  "  when  I  found  my 
family  would  never  consent,  I  started  by  myself  one 
day  to  go  into  France;  but  when  I  had  gone  some 
leagues  I  knew  it  was  no  use.  I  must  be  sent  by  the 
Captain  of  Vaucouleurs;  St.  Catherine  and  St.  Mar- 
garet have  told  me  what  to  do." 

"  Do  you  ever  see  their  faces  ? "  inquired  Durand, 
sinking  his  voice. 

"  I  see  their  faces,"  spoke  Jeanne ;  "  I  see  them  al- 
ways in  the  same  form.  I  do  not  know  if  there  is 
anything  in  the  shape  of  arms  or  other  members 
figured.  They  are  crowned  with  beautiful  crowns, 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  I?ARC  11 

very  rich  and  very  precious.  Of  their  raiment  I  can- 
not speak.  I  know  them  by  the  sound  of  their  voices. 
They  are  sweet  and  humble.  They  speak  very  well 
arid  in  beautiful  language,  and  I  understand  them 
perfectly." 

It  was  an  age  in  which  supernatural  things  were 
heard  of  on  every  side :  but  Durand  had  a  well-com- 
pacted body,  and  lived  near  the  soil;  he  had  never 
troubled  himself  about  spiritual  mysteries.  This  new 
attitude  of  his  mind,  when  he  noticed  it,  astonished 
him.  He  did  not  know  why  he  believed  in  Jeanne ; 
he  felt  as  if  he  were  in  church,  and  obliged  to  do  what 
he  was  told  to  do.  The  baby  slept  on  her  lap,  with 
the  rapid  breathing  of  infancy.  He  looked  at  his  little 
child  with  an  emotional  puckering  of  his  face,  and  at 
the  larger  child  holding  it.  His  wife  had  played  with 
Jeanne  d'Arc  about  the  spring  behind  Bermont  chapel. 
His  wife  was  now  a  young  matron ;  but  this  other  girl, 
of  unusual  physical  growth,  had  yet  an  innocence  like 
that  of  a  babe.  St.  Michael,  the  terrible  archangel  of 
battles ;  St.  Catherine,  the  martyr  of  Egypt ;  and  St. 
Margaret,  the  Greek  virgin,  might  have  shown  them- 
selves to  such  a  being. 

"  But  if  I  take  thee  to  Messire  de  Baudricourt,  Je- 
hannette,"  Durand  objected,  "  what  will  Jacques  d'Arc 
and  Isabel  Rom6e  say  to  me  ? " 

"  They  will  forgive  you." 

"  They  will  say  I  have  made  them  a  poor  return  for 
the  nursing  of  my  wife  and  child,"  he  continued. 

"  If  you  cannot  take  me,  compere,  I  must  set  out  by 
myself  on  foot  to-morrow,"  she  responded. 

"  No ;  that  will  never  do.    I  must  go  along." 


12  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

Durand  sat  frowning  over  his  folded  arms  while  he 
deliberated.  He  glanced  toward  the  cupboard  bed, 
and  leaned  forward  to  speak  between  nearly  closed 
lips. 

"  Attend,  Jehannette.  When  my  mother  comes  in 
to-morrow  to  help  Aveline  with  the  child,  we  will  say 
nothing  about  Vaucouleurs.  They  might  send  word 
to  Jacques  and  Isabel.  I  will  say  I  go  again  to  Dom- 
remy.  When  you  get  into  the  cart  they  will  think  you 
are  going  home." 

Jeanne  heard  this  proposed  deceit  without  any  an- 
swering smile  of  caution. 

"  I  must  go,  no  matter  who  tries  to  prevent  me. 
They  will  forgive  you,  compere,  and  they  will  forgive 
me  when  they  understand  that  I  was  obliged  to  go." 

"  The  horse  and  the  cart  and  I,  we  will  have  to  stay 
in  Vaucouleurs  overnight.  Attend,  Jehannette,"  con- 
tinued Durand,  twitching  the  lid  of  one  of  his  pleasant 
eyes.  "  I  will  say  that  I  may  have  to  go  even  as  far 
as  Neufchateau  to-morrow.  It  is  a  bad  time  of  the 
year  to  travel,  and  I  cannot  get  back  the  same  night." 

As  he  laid  plans  to  hoodwink  his  family,  Durand's 
big  finger  traced  a  map  on  the  table,  with  the  villages 
in  their  actual  position,  leaving  out  the  intermediate 
ones  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter :  Vau- 
couleurs first,  in  the  north ;  then  Bury-la-C6te ;  Dom- 
remy  farther  down  the  valley  of  the  Meuse;  and 
farthest  south  of  all,  Neufchateau.  The  cunning  ex- 
pression on  the  honest  man's  face  made  Jeanne  laugh. 
The  tears  were  scarcely  dry  on  her  cheeks,  but  her 
whole  figure  was  elastic  with  relief. 

"  We  must  tell  the  truth,  compere ;  I  think  Aveline 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC  13 

and  your  mother  ought  to  know  that  we  go  to  Vau- 
couleurs." 

Duraiid  regarded  her  attentively,  and  nodded  his 
head.  "Eh,  well;  if  you  think  it  best,  I  will  tell 
Aveline  and  my  mother.  But  the  next  thing  to  be 
considered  is,  where  will  you  stay  at  night  in  Vaticou- 
leurs  ?  " 

"I  have  thought  about  the  wife  of  Henri  Royer 
the  wheelwright,"  answered  Jeanne.  "She  was  my 
mother's  friend  when  they  were  both  pucelles  in 
Vauthon." 

"  Her  house  will  be  the  place  for  you.  Have  you 
ever  seen  her  ? " 

"  Only  once,  when  she  came  to  Domremy  in  a  new 
cart,  before  men-at-arms  overran  the  country.  It  was 
before  our  Catherine  died.  Aveline  and  I  were  not  old 
enough  to  tend  the  sheep.  She  gave  us  all  a  good  wel- 
come to  her  house." 

"  It  will  do,"  said  Durand,  with  satisfaction ;  "  and 
now  go  to  bed,  Jehannette,  for  we  must  get  up  early 
to  make  this  journey." 

Drawing  the  child's  clumsy  cradle  to  its  place  beside 
the  cupboard  bed,  Jeanne  tucked  the  little  bundle  in, 
and  put  away  the  remains  of  Durand's  supper  on  the 
shelves  of  a  closet  beside  the  chimney.  She  then 
washed  the  ware  which  he  had  used,  and  set  the  cup 
back  on  the  clean  table  beside  the  unfinished  bottle. 

To  reach  her  bed  she  was  obliged  to  go  out  of  the 
back  door  into  the  garden  and  enter  another  room. 
She  went  without  any  light  except  the  abundant 
splendor  of  the  moon.  It  was  to  a  fireless  best  cham- 
ber, as  chill  as  the  walls  of  a  tomb ;  but  her  face  laughed 


14  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

in  the  closing  doorway  as  she  bade  her  kinsman  and 
helper  good  night. 

"Good  night,  Jehannette,"  answered  Durand,  and 
he  poured  out  another  cup  of  the  thin  wine,  and  leaned 
over  the  dying  fagots.  "  Oh,  yes ;  I  will  tell  Aveline 
and  my  mother,"  he  said  to  himself,  rubbing  his  knee, 
and  grinning ;  "  but  I  will  tell  them  what  I  please,  and 
it  will  not  be  that  I  go  in  the  direction  of  Vaucouleurs. 
A  man  ought  to  have  at  least  one  lie  on  his  conscience 
when  he  goes  to  confession.  I  have  recently  been  too 
good  myself." 

It  was  not  the  lie  which  troubled  him  most  all  next 
day. 

VAUCOULEURS,— valley  of  colors,— built  on  a  hillside 
above  the  Meuse,  was  a  walled  town,  one  of  the  faith- 
ful little  citadels  holding  out  for  the  Dauphin  Charles. 
The  river-meadows  below  are  wide,  and  clouds  seem 
always  to  be  leaning  on  those  Vosges  hills,  which  roll 
in  undulating  uplands  against  the  sky.  The  early 
blue  twilight  of  winter  had  already  begun  to  blur 
leafless  thickets  on  the  islands  and  those  ribbons  and 
squares  of  stubble  which  showed  where  the  valley 
crops  had  been  and  the  plowman  had  not,  when  Du- 
rand Laxart  drove  his  horse  between  the  southern 
gate-towers.  Flakes  of  stiffened  mud  fell  from  the 
cart-wheels  on  the  small  paving-stones  of  the  principal 
street ;  dirty  water  stood  chilled  in  the  stone  gutters. 
Vaucouleurs,  like  other  towns,  threw  its  worst  out  of 
the  front  door,  and  saved  its  best  for  the  garden  at 
the  back.  Crooked  and  winding  streets,  so  narrow 
that  a  cart  filled  them  from  wall  to  wall,  ascended  and 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  15 

descended  in  every  direction.  The  chateau  of  the 
Captain  of  Vaucouleurs  was  up  the  height,  and  its 
battlements  and  square  towers  could  be  seen  far  down 
the  valley.  Jeanne  had  watched  it  while  horse  and 
cart  plodded  over  stretches  of  the  white  mire  into 
which  those  stony  hills  dissolved  their  dust.  She  still 
looked  upward,  half  muffling  her  face  in  her  woolen 
wrappings,  as  Durand  stopped  in  an  open  square  and 
searched  for  Royer's  house. 

"  They  told  us  at  the  gate  that  it  faced  north— a 
high,  narrow  house  with  a  yellow  door.  There  it  is," 
said  he,  indicating  a  door  with  his  whip.  He  turned 
the  horse's  head. 

"  But  I  must  go  first  to  Messire  Robert  de  Baudri- 
court,"  said  Jeanne. 

"  Not  without  a  bite  to  eat  or  a  fagot  to  warm  by  ? " 

"  I  am  too  warm,  compere ;  I  am  full  of  blood.  And 
I  cannot  eat  until  Messire  de  Baudricourt  has  heard 
what  I  have  to  tell  him." 

"Eh,  well,"  grumbled  Durand;  "but  consider  the 
horse.  I  say  nothing ;  fasting  is  good  for  my  soul  : 
but  the  poor  beast  has  no  soul  to  be  benefited,  and  he 
needs  stable  and  provender." 

"  Then,  compere,  let  me  stand  here  while  you  stable 
the  horse  and  take  a  message  to  Henri  Royer's  wife. 
I  cannot  speak  to  any  one  before  I  have  spoken  to 
Messire  de  Baudricourt." 

Durand  would  have  descended  from  the  cart,  but 
Jeanne  let  herself  lightly  down  by  the  iron  step.  Then 
he  rattled  across  the  square,  and  she  stood  waiting. 

Some  children  in  wooden  shoes  made  a  great  noise 
in  the  street  as  they  ran  past  with  a  dog.  They  looked 


16  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

at  her,  but  felt  too  abashed  to  say  good  day  to  a 
stranger  who  did  not  appear  to  see  them.  Few  women 
looked  out  of  the  closed  windows.  Candles  began  to 
show. 

EGBERT  DE  BAUDRICOURT,  the  Captain  of  Vaucou- 
leurs,  was  sitting  at  his  supper  when  a  soldier  came  in 
and  made  salutation.  Enjoyment  of  his  fire  and  cheer- 
ful table  never  relaxed  this  portly  captain  of  an  isolated 
and  dangerous  post.  The  Burgundians  were  more  to 
be  dreaded  than  the  English  in  his  part  of  the  kingdom, 
but  matters  were  growing  so  bad  that  everything  was 
to  be  dreaded. 

"  News,  my  man  ? "  he  inquired,  with  an  alert  turn 
of  the  head. 

"There  are  two  peasants  at  the  gate,  messire  the 
captain.  The  woman  says  she  has  an  urgent  message 
for  you." 

"  Troopers  are  probably  out  over  the  valley  again. 
Bring  her  in  and  let  us  hear  what  she  has  to  say." 

He  went  on  hastily  with  his  supper,  for  arming  and 
saddling  might  be  the  very  next  business.  At  the 
sound  of  wooden  shoes  he  looked  up,  and  saw  a  bare- 
headed peasant,  abashed  and  reluctant,  leading  into  the 
room  a  young  maid  in  a  bodice  and  petticoat  of  the 
coarse  cloth  spun  and  woven  in  the  valley.  Her  bodice 
was  laced  up  toward  her  neck.  Baudricourt  noticed 
that  her  face  was  white  even  to  the  lips.  He  expected 
to  hear  of  a  house  sacked  and  a  family  slaughtered. 

"  Good  evening  to  both,"  said  the  captain ;  "  I  hope 
you  bring  no  evil  news." 

"No,  messire  the  captain,"  spoke  Jeanne j  "I  bring 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  17 

you  good  news.  St.  Michael  and  St.  Catherine  and  St. 
Margaret  have  sent  me  to  you." 

Baudricourt  wheeled  around  in  his  chair.  In  all  his 
military  experience  he  had  never  had  any  dealings 
with  saints.  It  was  his  opinion  that  the  beneficent 
powers,  if  any  existed,  had  washed  their  hands  of 
France.  There  was  not  a  more  distressed  kingdom  on 
the  face  of  the  earth.  The  very  princes  of  the  blood 
had  trampled  it  in  their  quarrels.  For  years  a  lunatic 
king  and  a  dissolute  queen  had  represented  its  govern- 
ment. And  now  that  Charles  VI  was  dead,  his  heir 
the  dauphin  was  disinherited  by  the  treaty  of  Troyes, 
which  bound  the  queen  and  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  to 
the  party  of  young  Henry  of  England.  Paris  was  the 
capital  of  invaders.  The  whole  realm  was  desolated 
by  long-continued  war.  And  now  Orleans  was  about 
to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy. 

"  Who  are  you  ? "  inquired  Baudricourt,  bending  his 
eyebrows  at  Jeanne.  Robert  de  Baudricourt  never 
seemed  a  clean-shaven  man ;  he  bristled  fresh  from  his 
toilet. 

"  I  am  the  maid  sent  from  God."a 

"  What 's  your  name  ? " 

"Jeanne  d'Arc;  but  in  my  country  they  call  me 
Jehannette." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"  I  want  you,  messire,  to  send  me  to  the  Dauphin 
Charles.  I  have  to  raise  the  siege  of  Orleans,  and  take 
him  to  be  crowned  at  Rheims." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !  "  roared  Baudricourt.  "  Why 
do  you  come  to  me  with  such  a  tale  as  this?  You 
fellow  with  her,  who  are  you  ? " 


18  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

"  I  am  her  cousin,  messire  the  captain." 

"Her  relative,  are  you?  Has  she  no  father  and 
mother?" 

"  Yes,  messire  the  captain." 

"Then  take  her  home  to  them,  and  tell  them  to 
give  her  a  good  whipping.  St.  Michael  and  St.  Cathe- 
rine and  St.  Margaret ! "  repeated  Baudricourt,  cutting 
his  bread  with  a  blow.  "  Go  home  and  spin  and  mind 
your  sheep,  and  don't  come  to  me  with  your  archangels 
and  saints  and  coronations!  Tell  her  father  and 
mother  to  give  her  a  good  whipping ! " 


II 


HE  winter  air  of  the  courtyard  did  not 
cool  Durand's  burning  chagrin  at  having 
taken  a  step  which  brought  a  young  pu- 
celle  to  such  treatment.  The  peasants  of 
the  Meuse  valley  had  never  learned  to  cringe  to  a 
feudal  lord,  but  Robert  de  Baudricourt  represented 
the  king  among  them.  Durand  took  Jeanne  by  the 
elbow  to  lead  her  away.  Her  father's  resentment, 
which  had  followed  him  all  day,  now  approached  and 
hung  over  him.  Domremy  and  Vaucouleurs  were 
almost  the  extreme  boundaries  of  his  world.  He  was 
angry;  yet  nothing  kills  faith  in  the  unseen  like  ridicule. 
Durand  could  see  the  quaking  of  Jeanne's  figure, 
and  hear  the  indrawing  of  her  breath,  as  she  wept  in 
her  wrappings.  Twilight  lingered  here  when  darkness 
lay  in  the  lap  of  the  valley.  The  soldier  who  had  led 
them  into  the  chateau  could  also  see  her  going  with 
bowed  head  from  Baudricourt's  abuse.  He  looked 
after  her  with  a  puzzled  smile,  but  Durand's  compas- 
sion was  like  a  woman's. 

"Come  home  to  Royer's  house,  pucelle;  they  are 
ready  to  give  thee  good  treatment  there.    I  blame 

19 


20  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC 

myself  for  this.  Such  a  thing  shall  never  happen  to 
thee  again." 

While  he  talked  at  her  side,  Jeanne  turned  to  the 
chapel  which  stood  facing  Baudricourt's  quarters. 
Durand  followed  her,  his  shoes  clumping  on  the  flags. 
He  was  afraid  Baudricourt  would  send  some  curt 
envoy  after  the  maid  and  hale  her  out,  and  was  glad 
that  the  open  door  showed  little  except  a  dusky  in- 
terior. But  when  Jeanne  saw  there  was  no  light,  she 
turned  and  followed  some  steps  which  led  down  into 
a  crypt.  Durand  felt  along  the  wall  as  he  clumsily 
kept  on  her  track,  and  descended  to  a  corridor  which 
ended  beside  an  arched  door.  The  crypt  chapel  had 
floor  and  vaulted  ceiling  of  white  stone,  and  he  could 
distinguish  small  carved  faces  set  like  rosettes  around 
the  supporting  pillars.  "Walls  swam  in  dimness,  but 
there  was  a  cup  of  crimson  light  on  the  altar  between 
the  statues.  Jeanne  was  kneeling  before  it.  That 
was  always  her  way.  Aveline  had  told  him  that 
Jeanne  used  to  leave  her  playmates  dancing  by  Ber- 
mont  spring,  or  listening  to  some  delicious  tale  like 
"  The  Bed  Children,"— as  red  as  melted  iron,— and  slip 
up  to  Bermont  chapel  to  pray.  "  And  what  was  there 
in  Bermont  chapel?"  said  Aveline.  "Nothing  but  a 
painted  wooden  image  of  the  Virgin  and  Child,  the 
Child  holding  a  bird  in  his  hand." 

Durand  stood  by  the  door  and  waited  until  his 
charge  was  ready  to  rise  up  and  come  away.  As  for 
himself,  he  felt  more  like  swearing  than  praying. 

They  were  both  silent  as  they  went  down  hill $  but 
when  they  reached  the  square  before  Royer's  house  he 
suggested : 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  21 

"  We  must  get  up  early  in  the  morning  to  start  to 
Bury-la-C6te." 

"  Yes,  you  go  back,  compere ;  Aveline  expects  you ; 
but  I  have  to  stay  here  until  Robert  de  Baudricourt 
sends  me  into  France." 

"  He  will  never  do  it,  Jehannette." 

"  Yes,  he  will  do  it ;  I  must  go  to  him  until  he  does 
do  it." 

"You  shall  not  stay  here  among  strangers,  to  be 
railed  at  by  the  Captain  of  Vaucouleurs ;  that  I  will 
not  myself  allow." 

"Compere,  I  have  to  go  into  France.  Robert  de 
Baudricourt  will  be  obliged  to  send  me.  St.  Catherine 
and  St.  Margaret  have  told  me  that." 

"Jehannette,  come  home;  I  do  not  know  how  to 
face  Jacques  and  Isabel." 

"You  must  let  me  be,  compere;  I  cannot  turn 
back." 

Merely  walking  in  her  company  seemed  to  infect 
him  again  with  her  visions;  every  step  took  him 
farther  from  Baudricourt's  contempt. 

"  Royer's  wife  has  a  good  welcome  ready  for  you ; 
but  Jacques  d'Arc  shall  never  say  I  brought  his  maid 
here  and  left  her  to  shift  for  herself.  I  am  obliged  to 
go  home,  but  I  will  come  back  again  in  a  week." 

"Tell  my  father,"  said  Jeanne,  quickly,  "it  will  be 
no  use  to  follow  me." 

"I  shall  keep  myself  out  of  the  way  of  Jacques 
d'Arc  till  this  business  is  settled." 

"  But  if  Aveline  sends  him  word  he  will  surely  fol- 
low me." 

"  I  do  not  think  she  will  send  him  word,  Jehannette. 


22  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

My  opinion  is,"  added  Durand,  under  his  breath,  "  she 
has  no  word  to  send." 

IN  a  week  Durand  Laxart  came  back  to  Vaucouleurs, 
and  found  Jeanne  spinning  by  the  side  of  Rover's  wife. 
The  shadows  were  heavier  under  her  eyes,  and  the 
oval  of  her  face  had  grown  more  wan. 

"  She  is  the  best  pucelle  I  ever  saw,"  declared  her 
guardian  to  Durand,  after  taking  him  into  another 
room  and  setting  food  before  him.  "All  day  she  is 
either  spinning  with  me  or  on  her  knees  in  the  chapel." 

"  Has  she  been  to  messire  the  captain  again  ? " 

"  My  faith,  yes !  And  I  never  thought  to  stand  by 
and  hear  such  railing  as  he  put  upon  her.  But  to-day 
he  came  down  here  with  the  priest  and  a  censer,  and 
they  exorcised  her  for  an  evil  spirit.  Par  examp' !  " 
cried  Beyer's  wife ;  "  did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing 
as  exorcising  a  child  like  that  for  an  evil  spirit ! " 

"  She  is  no  more  under  possession  than  is  my  bap- 
tized infant,"  said  Durand,  with  strong  disapproval. 

"  And  that  messire  the  cure  saw  when  he  bade  her 
approach.  She  fell  on  her  knees,  and  went  so  across 
the  stone  floor,  and  she  laughed  in  their  faces,  the  dear 
child,  at  their  foolishness." 

"  Have  you  heard  whether  messire  the  captain  will 
send  her  into  France  ? " 

"  He  says  he  will  not,  and  he  will  have  her  punished 
if  she  comes  up  to  the  chateau  to  trouble  him  again. 
But  my  husband  has  told  me  a  messenger  went  out 
several  days  ago  to  the  dauphin  at  Chinon,  giving  in- 
formation about  her,  and  asking  what  shall  be  done 
with  her." 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ABC  23 

Durand  felt  his  heart  sink,  for  in  every  Christian 
realm  the  fate  of  accused  sorcerers  was  the  stake. 

He  did  not  talk  much  with  Jeanne,  but  sat  and 
looked  at  her  silently.  The  week  had  changed  her. 
She  noticed  her  surroundings  less.  She  was  waiting 
with  all  her  body  and  spirit.  Durand  felt  hurt  that 
she  did  not  inquire  about  the  baby ;  all  the  children 
in  Doinremy  and  Bury-la-C6te  used  to  hang  about  her 
petticoat,  she  took  such  pleasure  in  them. 

Next  morning  he  walked  the  streets  of  Vaucouleurs 
instead  of  going  to  chat  in  Beyer's  shop.  Vaucouleurs 
was  his  great  capital.  Ho  never  expected  to  see  any- 
thing finer.  The  gray-tiled  roofs  were  more  venerable 
to  him  here  than  the  same  kind  of  roofs  in  Bury-la- 
C6te.  There  was  a  white  glare  from  the  white  soil 
which  smote  on  the  eyes  even  when  the  sun  did  not 
shine  out.  Beyond  the  western  wall  he  could  see  the 
Meuse  in  its  meadows,  and  then  the  long  ridge  beyond, 
bearing  up  sear  vineyards  which  in  a  month  would 
begin  to  quicken  with  vines. 

On  the  terrace  of  street  where  Durand  clumped 
aimlessly  along  some  public  theme  fermented.  The 
air  had  a  mild  and  springlike  touch,  and  people  came 
out  of  their  houses.  He  saw  through  an  open  window 
half  a  dozen  or  more  maids  sitting  close  together  with 
their  little  wheels,  and  caught  the  names  St.  Catherine 
and  St.  Margaret. 

He  saw  two  women  with  children  in  their  arms  meet 
on  a  corner,  and  nod  white  caps,  as  one  of  them  pointed 
toward  Royer's  house. 

The  street  was  choked  with  huge  wagons  woven  of 
unpeeled  boughs  into  the  shape  of  enormous  baskets, 


24  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

oblong  and  rounded,  heaped  with  charred  sticks. 
Three  horses  with  bells  on  their  high  yokes  were 
hitched  in  a  line  before  each  load.  The  charcoal- 
burners  were  bringing  in  the  product  of  their  labor, 
thankful  to  be  within  closed  gates,  safe  from  wanton 
despoiling.  They  marched  bareheaded  beside  their 
horses,  cracking  their  whips,  each  with  a  black  smock 
over  his  woolens  descending  almost  to  his  wooden 
shoes.  The  first  man  encountered  a  group  in  mid- 
street  that  the  touch  of  a  horse's  nose  did  not  scatter. 
He  shouted  warning,  but  the  foremost  horse  was  will- 
ing to  halt,  and  yoke  after  yoke  ceased  swaying  and 
filling  the  narrow  track  with  melody.  The  drivers  all 
came  up  open-mouthed  when  they  had  rested  a  few 
minutes ;  for  the  talk  was  about  raising  the  siege  of 
Orleans,  and  taking  the  dauphin  to  be  crowned  at 
Rheims,  and  a  maid  who  wanted  to  be  sent  into 
France. 

"  She  says  she  must  go,"  declared  a  mercer,  who  had 
his  shears  hanging  to  his  neck  by  a  cord.  He  also 
was  smocked  for  his  labor  behind  the  counter.  "I 
never,  heard  anything  so  strange  as  a  young  pucelle 
wanting  to  leave  her  family  to  go  where  there  is  so 
much  bloodshed." 

"There  will  be  more  bloodshed,  and  one  will  not 
have  to  go  far  to  see  it,"  said  a  man  who  carried  a 
quill  behind  his  ear,  and  wore  instead  of  the  blouse 
or  smock  a  short,  close  garment  called  a  hardy-coat, 
buttoned  its  entire  length  in  front.  "  If  the  dauphin 
could  get  soldiers  from  Scotland,  what  port  is  there 
open  to  land  them  in?"  He  moved  his  large,  light 
eyes  from  face  to  face.  \ 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC  25 

"What  pucelle  wants  to  leave  her  family  and  go 
into  France  ? "  inquired  one  of  the  charcoal-burners. 

"  It  is  a  young  pucelle  from  Domremy,"  answered  a 
baker,  pushing  his  white  cap  awry  with  the  back  of 
his  hand.  "  The  women  in  Vaucouleurs  say  there  is 
nothing  to  be  spoken  against  her.  She  pays  no  atten- 
tion to  anything  but  her  prayers  and  her  spinning. 
She  wants  Messire  de  Baudricourt  to  send  her  to  the 
dauphin." 

"Is  there  not  an  old  saying,"  asked  the  charcoal- 
burner,  "  that  a  maid  from  the  march  of  Lorraine  is 
to  save  France  ? " 

The  men  all  turned  as  if  surprised  by  an  echo.  The 
old  saying  had  been  many  times  repeated  that  week 
in  Vaucouleurs.  The  man  in  the  hardy-coat  took  the 
quill  from  behind  his  ear,  and  poised  it  as  if  about  to 
write  his  words  on  the  faces  of  the  others.  He  was  a 
distinguished  person :  he  could  both  read  and  write. 
Writing  legal  papers  was  his  business;  and  though 
among  nobles  his  calling  was  despised,  it  gave  him 
some  authority  in  a  remote  place  like  Vaucouleurs, 
"  I  believe  she  is  the  maid.  It  will  be  as  little  as  the 
town  of  Vaucouleurs  can  do  to  fit  her  out  for  the 
journey." 

"  En  nom  De !  n  exclaimed  a  smith,  "  if  the  saints 
send  her  into  France,  let  her  go !  Here  is  the  fist  that 
will  shoe  her  horse  free  of  charge." 

"  It  is  Messire  de  Baudricourt  who  will  decide  that," 
said  the  mercer ;  "  but  I  have  good  gray  Flemish  cloth 
on  my  shelves." 

"  There  she  goes  to  the  chapel  crypt  again  to  pray," 
said  the  baker.  Dough  stuck  to  the  nail  of  his  point- 


26  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AKC 

ing  finger.  "  They  let  her  in  at  the  fortress  gate  for 
that.  She  goes  three  times  every  day." 

They  all  stood  silent,  watching  Jeanne  ascend  a 
flight  of  stone  stairs  to  the  winding  track  by  which 
the  chateau  was  reached.  Her  shrinking,  muffled 
figure  had  already  taken  on  for  them  a  kind  of  re- 
ligious sanctity. 

As  she  turned  the  wall  she  came  face  to  face  with 
a  middle-aged  knight.  He  wore  no  armor  except 
a  heart-shaped  cuirass  or  breastplate  buckled  with 
leather  straps  over  the  front  of  his  close-fitting  habit ; 
a  sword  hung  from  his  belt.  Jeanne  held  her  woolen 
covering  by  one  hand  under  her  chin ;  not  a  bit  of  her 
hair  showed.  The  face,  with  its  clear  eyebrows  and 
delicate,  round-lipped  mouth,  was  so  sweet  and  deter- 
mined that  if  he  had  not  taken  up  its  cause  before  he 
must  have  been  moved  to  do  so  now. 

"Pardon,  pucelle,"  said  the  knight.  He  put  his 
hand  on  his  cap.  "I  am  Jean  de  Metz,  seignior  of 
Novelopont,  one  of  Captain  de  Baudricourt's  officers. 
I  know  why  you  are  here,  and  I  would  willingly  help 
you." 

"  Messire,  everybody  in  Vaucouleurs  knows  why  I 
am  here.  I  am  waiting  for  Robert  de  Baudricourt  to 
send  me  into  France.  I  must  reach  the  dauphin  before 
Easter,  if  I  wear  off  my  legs  to  my  knees." 

Her  low  voice  stirred  De  Metz  like  a  call  to  arms. 
He  stood  looking  at  her  with  his  cap  off.  His  hair, 
betwixt  black  and  gray  in  color,  was  cut  straight 
around  below  his  ears,  and  being  of  a  strong  growth, 
flared  outward.  The  dazzling  light  of  the  uplands 
printed  benevolent  wrinkles  about  his  eyes.  His  chin 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  27 

stood  forward  even  when  he  lowered  it  toward  his 
breast,  and  it  gave  force  to  his  smile  and  words. 

"  Pucelle,  I  will,  on  my  own  venture,  take  you  to  the 
dauphin.  Messire  the  captain  will  not  forbid  that." 

"Messire  de  Metz,  I  thank  you  for  your  good  will; 
but  I  must  be  sent  from  the  governor  of  my  own 
country.  Bitterly  have  I  learned  that.  My  counsel 
have  bid  me  to  wait."] 

"  And  who  are  your  counsel  ? " 

"  St.  Michael  and  St.  Catherine  and  St.  Margaret." 

"  Do  you  hear  their  actual  voices,  pucelle  ?  " 

"  Yes,  many,  many  times.  But  it  is  when  the  church 
bells  ring  that  they  speak  to  me  clearest." 

"  But  how  can  you  hear  voices  through  a  clamor  of 
bells?" 

The  reticence  of  one  whose  dearest  secret  is  touched 
appeared  in  Jeanne's  face.  Her  eyes  pitied  him  for 
not  understanding. 

"  The  voices  are  clearest  then,"  she  repeated.  "  They 
often  come  among  Christians  who  do  not  hear  or  see 
them." 

De  Metz  had  never  served  in  the  dissolute  rabble  of 
Southern  soldiers  and  mercenaries.  He  thought  it 
was  his  own  softness  which  melted  before  her.  Yet 
he  realized  all  the  enormous  force  carried  by  a  person 
with  one  idea. 

"  When  you  go  to  the  dauphin,"  he  offered,  "  I  will 
be  your  knight,  and  commander  of  your  party." 

"  Messire  knight,  you  have  given  me  comfort ;  but 
I  have  no  comfort  to  send  to  Robert  de  Baudricourt. 
Tell  him  that  my  counsel  have  told  me  this  day  the 
French  have  suffered  a  defeat  near  Orleans,  and  it 


28  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AKC 

might  have  been  prevented.  And  worse  will  come 
unless  I  am  allowed  to  do  what  I  am  sent  to  do." 

She  made  him  a  peasant's  reverence,  and  went  on 
up  the  hill ;  and  he  went  down,  resting  his  left  hand 
on  his  sword-hilt,  and  staring  at  the  stony  soil.  The 
walls  made  a  sheltered  reservoir  in  which  air  settled 
warm  from  the  sun. 

De  Metz  passed  the  staircase  which  Jeanne  had 
ascended,  and  winding  on,  he  came  to  a  narrow  turn 
between  houses.  A  young  man  whom  the  knight  did 
not  know  stepped  before  him  there.  The  young  man 
pulled  off  his  cap.  If  he  had  not  been  well  dressed  in 
a  close  hardy-coat  belted  around  his  hips,  and  the 
same  kind  of  long  cloth  trunk-hose  and  leather  shoes 
as  De  Metz  himself  wore,  the  knight  might  have  taken 
him  for  a  bold  footpad.  Yet  at  second  glance  he  had 
a  handsome  young  face.  He  was  well  made  and  he 
was  blue-eyed,  an  unusual  thing  in  rugged  Lorraine. 

"Messire,  I  want  to  speak  a  word  with  you,"  said 
the  young  man. 

"  Speak,"  responded  De  Metz.  He  was  at  first  not 
inclined  to  stop,  but  he  did  stop. 

"  Messire,  I  know  you  to  be  the  knight  of  Novelo- 
pont.  I  am  a  free-born  man.  My  father  has  a  holding 
of  land  in  Neufchateau.  Before  my  time  we  were 
better  than  innkeepers.  My  name  is  Bertrand  de 
Poulengy.  You  were  talking  yonder  with  a  young 
pucelle." 

De  Metz  glanced  backward  as  if  the  shadows  of 
Jeanne  and  himself  were  still  standing  by  the  wall. 

"  Do  you  know  her  ? "  he  inquired.  "  I  thought  she 
was  from  Domremy  village,  not  Neufchateau." 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  29 

"She  is  from  Domremy  village,  messire.  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  the  truth.  I  was  a  fool.  When  the 
raiders  came  two  years  ago,  and  the  people  were  driven 
from  Domremy  to  Neufchateau,  her  family  lodged  with 
us.  You  may  not  know  it,  messire  the  knight,  but 
there  is  no  one  like  her  in  the  world.  She  helped  my 
mother  when  we  were  thronged,  and  she  was  so  humble 
and  so  kind  that  even  before  they  went  home  again  I 
began  to  think  I  should  die  if  I  could  not  get  her. 
But  we  were  both  young,  and  my  father  obliged  me  to 
wait  awhile  before  he  made  the  proposals.  Messire, 
her  family  were  willing,  but  she  would  not  marry  at 
all."  He  hung  down  his  head. 

"Never  mind,  my  lad;  never  mind.  There  are 
plenty  of  maids  for  wives  in  the  world.  This  one  has 
set  her  heart  on  other  things." 

"  That  is  not  it,  messire.  I  was  like  a  crazy  man. 
Some  said  she  was  so  timid  and  modest  that  if  I  took 
oath  she  had  given  me  her  promise  she  would  not  dare 
deny  it,  and  everything  would  go  well  after  we  were 
once  married.  I  thought  about  it  day  and  night. 
Then  I  went  to  her  mother,  and  her  mother  was  so 
terrified  by  the  pucelle's  talk  about  going  into  France 
that  we  both  thought  such  a  sin  might  be  forgiven. 
So  I  went  to  Toul  and  took  oath  before  a  magistrate." 

"My  faith,  you  were  a  persistent  man,"  said  De 
Metz,  with  contempt. 

"Yes,  you  will  find  me  that,"  answered  Bertrand, 
lifting  his  head.  "  Messire,  she  went  to  Toul  herself, 
and  on  her  oath  denied  it.  It  was  a  hard  thing  for  a 
young  pucelle  to  do.  I  put  that  mortification  upon 
her.  There  is  no  excuse  for  me.  I  was  a  fool  to  think 


30  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

I  could  get  her.  Messire,  I  want  to  be  her  squire  or 
servant  if  she  is  sent  to  Chinon  to  the  dauphin." 

"  Do  you  think  a  man  who  has  perjured  himself  is 
a  fit  man  to  be  squire  and  servant  to  a  good  maid  ? " 

The  boy's  appealing  eyes  took  all  the  sternness  out 
of  De  Metz's  question. 

"Messire,  if  you  had  ever  been— that  way,  you 
would  not  judge  me  at  my  worst." 

"But  if  you  were  in  her  party  you  might  grow 
worse— that  way,"  suggested  the  knight. 

"  I  can  never  think  again,  messire,  that  if  she  would 
take  a  husband  she  would  ever  look  at  me.  But  even 
my  father  and  mother  understand  I  have  to  go  to  the 
wars.  You  are  older  than  I  am,  messire,  and  perhaps 
you  have  wife  and  children  ? " 

"No,  I  have  none,"  said  Jean  de  Metz. 

"  I  have  taken  another  oath,"  said  Bertrand,  "  and 
this  oath  is  a  true  one.  I  will  follow  her  if  she  goes 
to  the  wars,  and  take  all  the  care  of  her  that  a  man 
may.  She  is  more  than  wife  and  children  and  friends 
and  home  to  me.  Messire,  she  is  religion  to  me  now." 

Though  De  Metz's  experience  extended  little  further 
than  Bertrand's,  he  dimly  recognized  the  cry  of  that 
age  in  the  boy's  declaration.  It  was  the  exalting  of  a 
virgin,  chivalry  and  religion  strangely  met.  Political 
divisions  had  resulted  from  it.  Dominican  friars,  who 
opposed  the  dogma  of  the  immaculate  conception,  had 
been  expelled  from  the  court  of  the  late  king ;  while 
Franciscans,  who  zealously  upheld  the  dogma,  became 
identified  with  the  loyal  party.  The  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy protected  the  Dominicans,  and  they  turned 
with  him  to  the  English  cause. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  31 

"I  mil  do  this  much,  my  lad,"  said  De  Metz;  "I 
will  recommend  you  to  messire  the  captain.  But  a 
man  makes  his  own  reputation  in  arms.  Have  you  a 
horse  ?  " 

"Yes;  I  came  here  on  a  horse  of  my  own.  My 
father  gave  me  enough  to  fit  me  out.  There  is  no 
other  child  at  home." 

"  That  is  hard  for  your  father  and  mother." 

"  But  they  were  willing  to  let  me  go." 

"  Did  you  hear  of  the  maid  so  far  down  the  valley  f ' 

"  No ;  I  did  not  know  she  was  here  until  I  came  to 
Vaucouleurs.  But  her  family  have  been  afraid  for 
two  years  that  she  would  go  into  France." 

THE  news  was  spreading,  however,  as  far  down  the 
valley  as  Domremy.  Durand  Laxart's  wife  got  down 
from  a  cart,  and  took  her  child  from  the  hands  of  the 
neighbor  who  had  given  her  the  lift.  Her  uncle, 
Jacques  d'Arc,  came  from  the  fagot-stack  to  meet  her. 
He  had  gentle,  dark  eyes  and  a  face  of  lovable  keen- 
ness. The  winter  day  was  so  mild  that  he  had  been 
at  work  bareheaded,  and  his  yellow-ivory  skin  showed 
hundreds  of  little  cross-lines  enmeshing  his  small 
mouth,  which  was  like  his  daughter's,  with  a  sweet 
and  wistful  expression.  This  look  changed  to  appre- 
hension as  he  carried  Aveline's  baby  in. 

The  house  was  a  shed-shaped  stone  cottage  with  the 
roof  sloping  from  a  height  on  one  side  half-way  to  the 
ground  on  the  other.  At  one  corner  of  the  low  side 
Jeanne's  little  window  looked  directly  at  the  church. 
Aveline  noticed  the  church  while  she  followed  her 
uncle.  The  door  was  partly  charred,  and  there  were 


32  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

patches  in  the  roof.  A  new  low  tower  replaced  the 
high  square  tower  which  had  been  there  before  the 
Burgundians  swept  the  valley. 

Aveline's  small  forehead  was  drawn  with  puzzled 
anxiety,  and  it  tightened  as  Jacques  d'Arc  inquired : 

"  But  where  is  Jehannette  ? " 

She  hurried  before  him  into  the  house,  and  looked 
about  as  if  she  must  find  the  answer  there.  The 
earthen  floor  and  the  stone  mantel  were  white.  There 
was  a  wrought-iron  plate  to  keep  the  back  of  the  fire- 
place from  crumbling  with  heat,  and  it  glowed  rosy 
behind  the  fagots.  Isabel  Romee's  andirons,  which 
were  her  pride  and  inheritance,— three  feet  high,  with 
cups  at  the  top  for  brewing  posset,  and  hooks  in  front 
for  bars, — held  the  fagots  in  place  and  some  meat  sus- 
pended from  a  bar  roasting  for  dinner.  The  father 
had  watched  Jeanne's  head  rise  year  by  year  and  over, 
top  these  andirons.  He  remembered  more  than  one 
night  when  she  had  slept  on  the  floor  before  the  great 
guardians  of  the  hearth,  giving  up  the  daughter's 
chamber  to  refugees  made  houseless  by  raiders.  With 
the  self-control  of  habit,  he  stooped  and  turned  the  meat 
before  laying  Aveline's  precious  bundle  in  her  arms. 

"  Here  is  your  child ;  now  where  is  mine  ? " 

"  My  uncle  Jacques,  is  Jehannette  not  here  at  all  ? " 
persisted  Aveline,  turning  her  head  like  a  hen. 

"  How  could  she  be  here  and  also  in  Bury-la-C6te  ? 
We  lent  her  to  you,"  accused  Jacques. 

"  Did  not  my  husband  bring  her  home  more  than  a 
week  ago  ?  " 

"  She  has  not  been  seen  in  this  house  since  she  went 
to  nurse  you." 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  IVAKC  33 

Aveline  began  to  cry. 

"  Then  it  is  true  that  Durand  Laxart  went  to  Vaiu 
couleurs  the  first  time  as  well  as  the  second  time.  I 
heard  them  talking  about  Vaucouleurs  while  I  was 
asleep,  but  he  told  me  he  was  going  to  Neufchateau 
and  would  bring  Jehannette  home.  She  herself  told 
me  nothing.  I  thought  she  wanted  to  see  her  mother." 

Jacques  set  his  hands  in  his  thin  hair.  His  face 
bleached  while  she  spoke,  nostrils  and  jaw-lines  show- 
ing for  a  moment  as  in  a  death's-head. 

"  My  child  has  gone  into  France !  Durand  Laxart 
has  taken  my  child  to  Vaucouleurs,  and  let  her  go  into 
France ! " 

He  flung  the  door  open,  and  ran  toward  the  Meuse, 
his  wisp-like  legs  threatening  to  snap  with  the  weight 
of  his  wooden  shoes.  Aveline,  rolling  in  her  short 
petticoat,  ran  after  him,  holding  the  baby,  and  making 
audible  noises  as  her  tears  increased  and  her  breath 
shortened. 

The  ice  was  gone  from  the  edges  of  the  Meuse,  and 
a  practised  eye  might  note  reviving  life  in  the  flat 
islands.  Near  the  bridge  was  a  deep  pool,  and  two 
women  had  set  their  box-shaped  washing-tables,  open 
at  one  side,  in  the  water's  edge,  and  were  kneeling  at 
their  labor.  The  sound  of  their  paddles  could  be 
heard  along  the  valley,  as  they  beat  and  turned  and 
dipped  and  beat  again  the  coarse,  dark  woolens  of 
their  families.  One  was  a  large-framed  woman ;  she 
wore  a  white  cap  on  her  auburn-and-gray  head.  The 
other  was  a  girl,  and  though  the  winter  sun  shone 
directly  in  her  face,  she  kneeled  bareheaded.  She  had 
a  countenance  which  seemed  to  shine  with  rapturous 


34  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

contentment,  and  impressed  the  beholder  as  purely 
blonde.  It  was  afterward  a  surprise  to  see  that  her 
hair  was  black  and  her  skin  really  dark,  and  that  it 
was  only  a  whiteness  of  expression. 

"How  do  you  get  along,  Mengette?"  inquired  the 
woman. 

"  It  is  nearly  clean  now.  I  wish  I  could  put  Choux 
in  the  river  and  wash  him." 

11  He  grows  fouler  as  he  grows  older,"  remarked  the 
woman.  "  This  water,  is  it  not  cold  for  thee  ? " 

"  No  colder  for  me  than  for  you,  godmother  Romee," 
answered  the  girl.  A  woman  kept  her  own  name  in 
marriage,  and  the  wife  of  Jacques  d'Arc  was  always 
called  Isabel  Romee  of  Vauthon. 

"But  I  am  hardy.  I  can  cleanse  woolens  at  the 
river  when  most  other  women  keep  the  house.  I 
would  rather  spread  garments  on  the  bushes  when 
snow  flies  than  have  them  lying  foul." 

They  heard  a  cart  rolling  over  the  bridge,  and  looked 
up.  It  was  a  stranger's  head  passing  along  the  para- 
pet. Cart-wheels  were  not  so  startling  as  the  sudden 
clatter  of  horsemen.  Every  villager  lived  ready  to 
seize  his  goods  and  drive  his  flocks  for  safety  up  in 
the  hills. 

"  That  was  Jehannette's  way  also,"  said  Mengette ; 
"we  have  had  many  a  good  time  bleaching  clothes 
together  at  the  river.  Her  cousin  keeps  her  too  long, 
godmother.  Why  don't  you  command  her  home 
again  ? " 

"We  foolishly  promised  Durand;  but  I  am  going 
to-morrow  to  see  her  myself." 

"Are  you  going  in  the  cart?" 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  35 

"  No ;  the  lads  must  get  more  fagots  in  while  this 
•weather  holds  good.  I  am  going  by  the  hill  path." 

"  Then  let  me  go  with  you,  godmother.  I  can  set 
Choux's  dinner  for  liim  on  the  table,  and  we  can  reach 
home  by  twilight." 

"  It  will  be  very  good  to  have  you,"  said  Isabel,  and 
their  paddles  brought  echoes  from  the  hills  opposite. 

"  I  will  tell  Aveline  that  when  her  little  maid  grows 
up  she  will  find  how  hard  it  is  to  lend  her  and  doubly 
lend  her  out  of  the  house.  Jehannette  must  come 
home  with  us ;  it  will  not  do  any  longer." 

She  heard  a  noise  in  the  alluvial  hollow,  and  turned, 
to  face  Aveline  and  Jacques  and  the  calamity. 

Isabel  struggled  to  her  feet. 

"  Where  is  Jehannette  ? "  she  demanded. 

"  I  am  going  to  Vaucouleurs,"  answered  Jacques. 

Isabel  flew  at  her  husband,  and  caught  his  wrists, 
falling,  on  her  knees.  She  begged  him  not  to  tell  her 
that  her  child  was  gone.  Her  bare  red  arms  and 
hands,  and  her  face  burned  by  many  a  day  in  the 
fields,  lost  their  strength  in  a  moment,  and  hung  on 
the  slighter  man.  Jacques  held  her  against  him  as 
she  kneeled,  hushing  her  cries,  and  straightening  her 
cap,  while  he  formed  his  lips  piteously  for  an  ungiven 
kiss. 

"  I  am  going  to  Vaucouleurs,"  he  repeated ;  "  I  am 
going  to  saddle  the  horse.  Pierre  and  Jacquemine  will 
stay  here  with  thce." 

"  Oh,  Aveline,  it  is  not  true  that  my  child  has  gone 
into  France !  You  have  not  let  her  poison  our  old  age 
and  kill  us !  We  lent  her  to  you  in  a  time  of  need. 
Give  me  back  my  Jehannette ! " 


36  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

Aveline,  suffering  for  her  husband's  act,  hid  her  face 
from  Isabel,  and  mourned  aloud.  Mengette  helped 
Isabel  to  stand  up,  and  supported  her  on  one  side. 
That  serene  look  which  had  made  Mengette  Jeanne's 
favorite  did  not  pass  from  her  face  with  the  dripping 
of  tears.  The  quick  and  helpful  little  creature  put  her 
nervous  strength  to  the  mother's  sagging  body,  and 
when  the  wretched  procession  was  in  the  house  Men- 
gette returned  to  finish  the  clothes  and  carry  them 
away  to  spread.  The  blow  was  heavy  upon  her. 
Mengette  had  not  much  in  the  world  which  she  could 
afford  to  lose.  She  was  a  stepchild  of  fortune,  but 
she  had  always  cheated  the  sour  dame  by  her  own 
temperament,  and  got  the  best  out  of  everything. 

Jeanne  had  slept  with  her  in  her  own  bed,  and  she 
looked  back  now  at  their  simple  talks  about  life  and 
religion  and  angels.  Neither  girl  knew  that  maids 
usually  talked  more  about  men  than  about  angels.  It 
made  Mengette  very  comfortable  to  be  with  Jeanne. 
But  lately  she  knew  her  friend  had  gone  beyond  her. 
She  could  not  herself  understand  how  any  maid  could 
feel  impelled  toward  war ;  and  as  to  being  spoken  to 
by  saints,  Mengette  prayed  that  such  a  thing  might 
never  happen  to  her.  She  could  take  care  of  the  house 
and  her  geese,  and  sew  and  spin,  and  tend  Choux  as 
long  as  it  pleased  Heaven  to  let  him  last ;  but  if  a  saint 
had  spoken  to  her  out  of  the  clouds  she  must  have  died 
of  fright. 

Jacques  d'Arc  was  on  his  horse  galloping  to  Vau- 
couleurs,  and  Isabel  lay  prostrate  in  the  cupboard  bed, 
with  Aveline  to  wait  on  her.  The  lonely  little  worker 
kept  to  her  double  task  at  the  river.  At  noon  it  was 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  37 

growing  colder,  and  her  heart  was  heavy.  The  plea- 
sure of  washing  in  the  villages  was  in  the  meeting  of 
many  women,  and  chattering  and  laughter  and  news- 
telling  between  the  thump,  thump  of  the  clothes-beater. 

When  everything  was  wrung  out  she  piled  the  large 
pannier  up  until  it  towered  over  her  head,  then  she 
lifted  it  to  her  back,  thrusting  her  arms  into  the  plaited 
handles.  Mengette  was  obliged  to  steady  herself  care- 
fully to  keep  from  tipping  backward.  As  she  turned 
her  face  to  the  ascent  she  saw  Jeanne's  two  brothers 
coming  over  the  bridge  with  a  cart-load  of  fagots. 
Oxen  drew  the  cart,  moving  almost  silently  between 
parapets  where  it  was  impossible  to  run  aside  or  rebel 
against  the  head-yoke.  The  labors  which  belonged  to 
other  seasons  were  done  then  as  men  had  opportunity 
to  do  them.  Sowing  and  reaping,  tying  up  vines, 
burning  charcoal,  and  bringing  in  fuel,  had  not  the 
old  regularity.  Though  the  valley  of  the  Meuse  was 
remote  from  the  track  of  the  invaders,  it  was  the  direct 
route  between  the  two  portions  of  Burgundy.  And 
there  were  armed  bands  gathering  in  all  parts  of  the 
kingdom,  mercenaries  who  had  shaken  [off  military 
service  and  really  taken  to  the  trade  of  robbers.  Some 
of  them  yet  wore  the  badge  of  the  Armagnacs,  as  the 
dauphin's  party  was  called,  and  others  wore  the  badge 
of  the  English.  These  wolves  of  war  penetrated  every- 
where. What  Domremy  had  suffered  from  the  Bur- 
gundians  was  never  forgotten. 

Pierre  walked  ahead  of  Jacquemine,  cracking  the 
whip.  It  was  always  Pierre  and  Jacquemine,  never 
Jacquemine  and  Pierre,  though  Jacquemine  was  the 
eldest  of  the  family.  Jean,  the  second  brother,  was 


38  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AKC 

already  married  and  settled  in  Ids  mother's  house  at 
Vauthon.  He  seemed  no  longer  to  be  of  the  family, 
for  his  wife's  people  had  absorbed  him;  Pierre  and 
Jacquemine  were  the  sons  at  home.  Pierre  was  a 
large  fellow  with  rich,  dark,  rosy  color,  and  gray  eyes 
that  laughed  inside  their  black  lashes.  He  held  his 
head  back,  and  his  cap  usually  slipped  to  one  side  upon 
it.  The  girls  in  Domremy  liked  him,  but  he  was  fonder 
of  his  sister  than  of  any  of  them.  He  was  two  years 
older  than  Jeanne,  and  Jacquemine  was  four  years 
older  than  he  was.  Yet  he  could  lift  Jacquemine  up 
by  the  girdle  and  smock ;  and  though  Mengette  had 
little  to  complain  of  in  the  world,  it  disturbed  her  to 
have  Pierre  do  this.  The  helpless,  wrathful  look  on 
Jacquemine's  face  as  he  struck  and  kicked  against  the 
indignity  aroused  her.  Jacquemine  had  always  come 
to  her  to  talk  about  his  troubles,  which  consisted  of 
slights  put  upon  him.  There  seemed  to  be  too  little 
of  his  darkly  freckled,  sandy,  and  wizened  person. 
He  wept  as  easily  as  a  girl,  and  this  wrung  Mengette's 
heart  and  first  attracted  her  protection.  A  betrothal 
had  been  arranged  between  them  by  the  two  families 
before  her  father  and  mother  died,  but  it  was  under- 
stood that  they  were  not  to  marry  while  Choux  lived. 
They  would  not  have  enough  to  support  a  family  with 
Choux  also  to  provide  for,  though  by  themselves  they 
might  be  fairly  prosperous.  Jacquemine's  father  was 
to  give  him  a  field  and  some  cattle.  Mengette  had  a 
house  and  garden  and  a  flock  of  geese.  She  herded 
the  geese  herself,  and  exchanged  their  feathers  for 
wool;  and  being  a  thrifty  maid,  gathered  her  own 
fagots,— for  Choux  would  not  work,— aud  weeded  and 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  39 

tied  vines  in  vineyards  whenever  the  chance  offered. 
Besides,  Mengette  had  the  caps  and  petticoats  her 
mother  wore,  waiting  in  a  chest  until  she  should  need 
them.  She  had  carried  them  with  her  when  the  vil- 
lagers fled  to  Neufchateau  from  the  Burgundians. 

Jacquemine  sulked  across  the  bridge  without  seeing 
her  until  Pierre  called  down  a  good  day.  She  made 
a  sign  for  them  to  halt,  and  ascended  with  her  load, 
dreading  to  speak  her  news,  yet  obliged  to  spare  Isabel. 
The  oxen  swayed  to  one  side,  the  foremost  one  running 
obstinately  down  the  bank.  Pierre  had  some  trouble 
to  bring  them  to  a  stand  beside  a  wall  without  up- 
setting the  load.  Jacquemine  waited  at  the  end  of  the 
bridge  until  Mengette  struggled  up  to  him.  He  did 
not  reach  down  his  hand  to  her  as  Pierre  would  have 
done :  for  Pierre  was  always  quick  to  notice  when  a 
pannier  was  heavy,  and  to  help  a  maid,  especially  his 
sister  and  Mengette ;  but  Jacquemine  seldom  noticed 
anything  except  his  own  feelings.  He  was  the  kind 
of  man  that  women  wait  on ;  masculine  strength  was 
not  expected  in  him. 

Jacquemine  was  stung  because  she  rested  the  bottom 
of  the  pannier  on  the  parapet  and  waited  until  Pierre 
came  back.  If  Mengette  had  anything  to  say,  he  was 
the  person  to  say  it  to.  This  individual  resentment 
entered  his  grief  when  he  heard  the  news. 

"I  always  knew  Jehannette  would  disgrace  the 
family,"  he  exclaimed,  coloring  darkly;  "if  you  do 
not  want  to  marry  me  after  this,  Mengette,  I  shall  say 
nothing." 

"  She  has  not  disgraced  the  family,"  retorted  Meu- 
gette,  with  heat.  "She  is  better  than  I  am.  You 


40  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

ought  to  be  ashamed  of  saying  she  has  disgraced  the 
family." 

Jacquemine's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  You  can  take 
her  part  against  me  if  you  want  to."  And  he  turned 
his  back  and  sobbed.  Mengette  herself  wept  again, 
understanding  and  pardoning  his  misery.  But  Pierre 
stood  without  a  sound.  He  did  not  hear  them,  or 
Mengette  knew  he  would  have  shaken  Jacquemine  over 
the  parapet.  Rings  of  dark  hair  had  been  formed 
about  his  forehead  by  the  heat  of  walking.  He  held 
the  whip  across  his  shoulder,  and  stood  stunned,  taking 
the  news  into  his  mind.  The  long  stretch  of  road  and 
meadow  and  hill  rising  toward  Neufchateau  was  be- 
hind him.  The  January  sky  was  soft  and  gray  with 
gathering  clouds.  One  could  hear  the  wind  begin  to 
sing  up  in  the  leafless  oak  woods  where  Jeanne  used 
to  run  about  with  him. 

He  spoke  out  huskily : 

"  Does  anybody  know  that  she  has  yet  gone  into 
France  ? " 

"  No ;  but  it  is  certain  she  has  gone  as  far  as  Vau- 
couleurs.  Aveline  says  Durand  Laxart  is  in  Vaucou- 
leurs  now ;  and  she  heard  them  talking  about  it.  Your 
father  is  already  on  the  road,"  repeated  Mengette. 

"  I  am  going  with  my  sister,"  determined  Pierre. 

The  habit  of  his  life  was  first  to  assert  itself.  From 
the  time  Jeanne  was  old  enough  to  run  in  the  fields, 
Pierre  had  run  after  her  and  let  her  dictate  the  course. 

"  Your  father  told  your  mother  that  Jacquemine  and 
you  would  stay  with  her." 

"  Jacquemine  can  stay,  but  I  am  going  with  my  sis- 
ter." 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D>ARC  41 

"  Go,  go !  "  said  Jacquemine,  showing  an  indignant 
face  over  his  shoulder  in  the  act  of  wiping  it  with  his 
sleeve.  "  By  the  time  all  the  family  have  run  off  but 
me,  my  father  and  mother  will  find  who  is  really  a 
child  to  them." 

"But,  Pierre,"  pleaded  Mengette,  "godmother  Rome"e 
is  struck  down  in  her  bed.  If  you  go  now  it  may  be 
the  death  of  her.  She  said  to  Aveline,  '  You  have  let 
my  child  poison  our  old  age  and  kill  us.' " 

"  Go,  Pierre !  "  repeated  Jacquemine,  fiercely ;  "  I 
can  do  all  the  heavy  labor,  and  take  care  of  the  family 
and  the  cattle  in  case  the  Burgundians  come  again. 
Run  after  the  Annagnacs,  you  and  Jehannette." 

"  We  will,"  responded  Pierre. 

"  But  wait,  Pierrelo,  until  your  father  comes  back/ 
still  pleaded  Mengette ;  "  he  may  find  her  and  bring 
her  home." 

"  He  will  not  find  her ;  he  should  have  sent  me." 

"  Yes ;  he  should  have  sent  big  Pierre,"  venomously 
hissed  Jacquemine. 

He  snatched  the  whip,  and  ran  clattering  on  to  start 
the  oxen.  They  were  not  used  to  his  guidance,  and 
swayed  in  a  zigzag  course  from  wall  to  wall,  while  he 
cracked  the  whip  and  let  his  trouble  out  in  noisy  abuse 
of  them.  Mengette  lifted  her  pannier  and  trudged 
directly  after  him.  She  was  a  pucelle  of  spirit,  but 
Jacquemine's  rages  always  woke  her  motherly  com- 
passion, like  the  helpless  suffering  of  a  child.  She  felt 
it  necessary  to  quiet  him  before  he  went  into  the  house 
and  increased  the  disapproval  which  he  had  long  re- 
sented there. 

Pierre  sat  down  on  the  parapet  of  the  bridge  and 


42  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

stared  at  the  washing-place,  where  open-sided  box- 
tables  and  paddles  yet  remained.  The  Meuse  curled 
about  its  islands  and  rippled  among  the  naked  bushes. 
He  was  not  sure  that  it  was  a  calamity  which  had 
fallen  on  the  family,  but  it  was  certainly  a  grief.  To 
be  entirely  separated  from  his  sister  was  out  of  nature 
and  not  to  be  endured.  He  had  a  vague  and  careless 
knowledge  of  Jeanne's  visions  and  of  what  she  intended 
to  do  if  she  went  into  France.  Pierre  was  not  spirit- 
ual-minded. He  had  almost  to  be  flogged  to  his 
prayers  when  he  was  younger.  He  enjoyed  the  world ; 
but  more  than  everything  else  he  enjoyed  loving. 
Jeanne  would  draw  him  after  her  as  certainly  as  the 
bell-sheep  drew  the  flock.  But  when  he  had  thought 
awhile  he  decided  not  to  set  out  on  foot  along  the  hills 
to  Vaucouleurs  without  seeing  his  mother,  as  he  would 
be  obliged  to  do  if  he  went  at  once.  He  would  not 
forsake  his  mother  while  she  lay  prostrated  by  the 
loss  of  Jeanne.  But  he  had  a  conviction  that  his 
father  would  never  bring  Jeanne  back. 

And  when  Jacques  d'Arc  reached  Vaucouleurs  he 
did  not  find  his  daughter.  He  was  the  last  man  to 
enter  the  gates  that  night,  haggard  and  splashed  with 
hard  riding ;  but  a  strange  experience  met  him  there. 
He  had  scarcely  mentioned  the  maid  he  was  seeking 
when  a  lantern  was  lifted  by  a  passer-by,  and  men 
came  together  in  a  bunch  like  bees  to  hum  about  her. 
She  was  as  well  known  in  Vaucouleurs  as  the  captain 
there.  They  escorted  him  like  a  guard  of  honor  to 
Beyer's  house. 

"  Here  is  the  father  of  the  maid,"  they  said  to  Beyer's 
wife,  when  they  had  struck  on  the  door  and  she  opened 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  43 

it.  "  We  have  told  him  that  she  has  gone  to  Nancy 
with  her  cousin  and  the  knight  of  Novelopont,  being 
sent  for  by  the  sick  Duke  of  Lorraine." 

Jacques  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands  and  listened 
to  Beyer's  wife  when  he  was  in  the  house.  It  was 
plain  that  the  people  in  this  part  of  the  country  be- 
lieved Jeanne  ought  to  go  into  France. 

"  But  she  shall  come  home,"  said  Jacques,  feeling 
the  tightness  at  his  heart  relax,  since  she  was  gone  in 
the  opposite  direction,  and  he  might  yet  intercept  her. 
"She  is  my  little  maid.  As  to  raising  sieges  and 
crowning  the  dauphin,  we  have  a  hearth  for  her  in 
Domremy,  and  she  was  always  contented  there  until 
these  troubles  grew  so  bad.  Her  mother  is  struck 
down  in  bed  on  account  of  her.  If  the  saints  sent  her 
into  France,  I  will  say  the  saints  have  little  regard  for 
family  ties.  We  have  no  other  maid :  our  Catherine 
is  dead.  From  the  time  Jehannette  could  clip  her 
little  hand  around  one  of  my  fingers,  she  would  toddle 
at  one  of  my  legs  and  Pierrelo  at  the  other.  I  say  she 
shall  not  go ;  and  she  was  always  obedient.  What ! 
would  I  let  my  innocent  child  go  among  men-at-arms, 
and  be  spoken  to  by  any  vile  follower  of  the  camp? 
I  would  kill  her  before  she  should  suffer  such  things." 

He  waited  several  days  in  Vaucouleurs,  wrenched 
from  his  accustomed  places,  and  divided  between 
Jeanne  and  Isabel.  The  journey  was  an  education  to 
a  peasant  who  had  never  stirred  before,  except  from 
his  native  village  to  Domremy,  and  afterward  to  Neuf- 
chateau.  He  felt  the  pulse  of  the  world,  and  realized 
the  growth  of  his  child.  But  he  was  more  than  ever 
determined  not  to  give  her  up;  and  when  the  strain 


44  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AEC 

of  his  absence  grew  unendurable,  he  saddled  his  horse 
in  haste,  and  said  to  Boyer's  wife : 

"  I  ain  going  back  to  Isabel,  and  Pierre  will  come 
in  my  place.  Tell  Jehannette  I  command  her  home 
with  her  brother.  Tell  her  that  I  forbid  her  to  go  into 
France.  The  curse  of  the  disobedient  will  fall  on  her 
if  she  goes.  My  maid  is  a  good  maid,  and  I  blame  the 
people  of  Vaucouleurs  for  encouraging  her  in  this 
strange  desire.  Her  innocent  dreams  about  angels 
and  saints,  what  would  they  avail  her  among  bloody 
men-at-arms  ?  Her  place  is  at  home  with  her  mother 
and  me." 

But  before  Pierre  reached  Vaucouleurs  the  dauphin's 
messenger  from  Chinon  had  galloped  in,  and  Jeanne 
had  gone. 

Jacques's  horse  fell  lame.  He  led  it  and  walked, 
stumping  among  the  stones  in  his  sabots,  and  reaching 
Bury-la-C6te  late  in  the  night.  There  he  slept  in  the 
house  of  Aveline's  mother,  and  borrowed  another 
horse.  But  the  delay  made  Pierre  too  late. 

It  was  a  poor,  powerless  maid  who  threw  herself 
across  a  bench  and  cried  aloud  on  her  knees  when  she 
returned  from  Nancy,  and  was  told  that  her  father 
had  been  seeking  her,  and  the  messenger  from  Chinoii 
was  already  there. 

"  Oh,  my  father,  my  dear  father !  How  can  I  en- 
dure not  to  see  my  father  and  mother  and  [Pierrelo 
again !  But  I  must  go— I  must  go !  " 

Jeanne  ran  from  the  house  up  the  stone  stairs  lead- 
ing to  the  chapel  crypt.  It  was  her  last  heartbreak 
before  the  altar,  weeping  to  be  sent,  and  weeping  be- 
cause she  must  be  sent. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  45 

There  was  excitement  both  in  the  chateau  and  the 
town.  Nobody  in  Vaucouleurs  ^except  Baudricourt 
had  doubted  that  the  dauphin  would  send  for  the  maid. 
Candles  burned  all  night  in  the  shop  where  her  outfit 
was  finished,  and  the  people  of  Vaucouleurs,  who  bore 
the  expense  of  it,  looked  in  crowds  at  the  busy  work- 
men as  a  public  spectacle. 

"  The  maid  is  to  ride  forth  in  man's  apparel/'  said 
women  to  one  another,  in  consternation.  "  She  says 
she  has  been  counseled  so  to  do.  Is  that  decent  ? "  •= 

"I  call  it  decent  myself,"  decided  a  dame  in  authority. 
"  What  would  she  do  with  petticoats  astride  of  a  horse, 
riding  a  hundred  and  fifty  leagues,  and  having  no 
woman  of  her  party  ?  Even  messire  the  captain  had 
nothing  to  say  against  it  when  she  begged  for  the 
habit  of  a  man." 

"Messire  de  Baudricourt  has  changed  his  opinion 
of  her  since  the  dauphin's  messenger  came  in  with 
news  of  the  defeat  near  Orleans." 

"Yes;  they  say  the  maid  knew  it,  and  sent  him 
word  the  very  day  the  battle  was  fought." 

In  Vaucouleurs  Jeanne  was  the  maid  who  out  of  the 
march  of  Lorraine  was  to  deliver  France.  She  was  to 
have  a  knight  and  a  squire,  two  common  soldiers  as 
their  servants,  an  archer,  and  the  dauphin's  messenger, 
as  her  escort.  Durand  Laxart  himself  pledged  pay- 
ment for  a  horse.  It  would  be  a  hard  ride  to  Chinon 
—from  this  northeast  corner  of  the  ancient  realm  a 
hundred  and  fifty  leagues  diagonally  southwestward 
across  France.  The  party  would  have  to  avoid  cities 
held  by  the  English,  and  slip  between  marauding  bands. 
They  had  five  large  rivers  to  cross.  Wherever  they 


46  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ABC 

dared  use  the  old  Roman  roads  good  speed  could  be 
made ;  but  much  of  the  journey  lay  across  trackless 
spaces  full  of  the  dangers  of  war. 

It  was  the  first  Sunday  in  Lent,  and  people  flocked 
to  the  chateau  early  in  the  morning  to  see  her  start. 
The  maid  had  been  brought  there  by  Royer's  wife  and 
other  women,  to  be  dressed  for  her  undertaking. 

Every  citizen  of  Vaucouleurs  raised  his  cap  in  the 
air  and  cheered  as  she  came  out  into  the  court,  a  sup- 
ple, easily  moving  creature  with  a  radiant  face,  in  the 
suit  of  a  man-at-arms,  the  jacket  and  tunic  of  gray 
cloth,  the  cuirass  of  leather  thongs.  Her  long  hose, 
cut  and  shaped  from  the  cloth,  were  laced  over  her 
body-garment,  and  strong  leather  shoes  were  on  her 
feet.  The  women  had  cut  her  hair  off  about  her  ears, 
and  put  the  cap  of  a  man-at-arms  on  her  head. 

The  horses  were  standing  ready.  The  men  of  her 
party  waited  her  mounting.  There  was  nothing  male 
about  her.  Though  she  looked  smaller  than  in  her 
maid's  dress,  no  person  said  to  another,  "  She  is  like  a 
boy."  She  was  simply  the  maid  dressed  to  ride  like  a 
man. 

"What  have  you  there,  pucelle?"  inquired  Baudri- 
court,  meeting  her,  and  taking  her  packet  to  fasten 
behind  the  saddle. 

"  My  red  peasant  dress,  messire  the  captain." 

"  What  would  you  do  with  your  peasant  dress  on  a 
journey  to  court  ? " 

"  Unfold  it  and  look  at  it  sometimes,  messire.  I 
love  what  I  wore  in  my  home." 

"Let  come  what  may  come  of  this,"  said  Baudri- 
court,  "  Heaven  knows  I  don't  understand  these  things, 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC  47 

or  how  you  should  be  able  to  tell  me  there  was  a  battle 
over  some  herrings  and  camp  supplies  near  Orleans 
the  very  day  it  was  fought.  But  go  your  ways,  pu- 
celle  my  friend ;  it  is  no  longer  my  affair." 

"  Good-by,  messire  the  captain ;  have  no  fear  for  me. 
I  shall  be  taken  care  of." 

"  If  you  be  not,  God  he  knoweth  it  will  be  through 
no  fault  of  mine ;  for  every  man  in  this  party  hath 
sworn  an  oath  to  me  to  deliver  you  safely  to  the 
dauphin." 

Jeanne  laughed  as  she  put  her  hand  on  the  bridle. 
Her  squire  knelt  to  take  her  foot  and  lift  her  into  the 
saddle. 

"  I  am  a  peasant,"  she  said ;  "  I  do  not  know  any- 
thing about  mounting  as  grand  dames  mount.  Let 
me  find  a  block  of  stone."  Then  she  looked  at  the 
squire  with  sudden  scrutiny. 

"  Not  this  man,  messire  the  captain.  Has  this  man 
also  taken  oath  ? " 

"  I  have,"  the  young  man  answered,  on  his  knees ; 
"  and  this  oath  is  a  true  one,  maid  of  France." 

Jeanne  believed  him.  She  had  no  grudge  against 
Bertrand  de  Poulengy.  Her  open,  bright  look  ac- 
cepted at  once  his  atonement  and  their  new  relations. 
She  mounted  the  horse  from  the  chateau  steps.  Her 
eyes  moved  gratefully  from  face  to  face  in  the  crowd. 
She  lifted  her  cap ;  her  forehead  was  white  in  the  sun, 
a  girl's  smooth  forehead,  with  the  hair  blowing  back 
from  it.  Men  and  women  felt  their  hearts  swell. 
This  tender  young  being  was  going  out  to  fight  for 
them.  It  was  the  strangest  thing  that  had  ever  hap- 
pened. For  a  hundred  years  France  had  given  her 


48  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

sons  to  war,  but  now  a  daughter  was  demanded— a 
maid  was  necessary  for  sacrifice.  Jeanne  leaned  down 
and  grasped  hand  after  hand.  Women  kissed  her 
fingers,  which  had  not  yet  touched  anything  more 
deadly  than  needle  or  spindle.  She  was  their  dear 
child,  whom  they  were  themselves  giving  up. 

"Good-by,"  said  Jeanne,  looking  into  her  cousin 
Durand's  faithful  face ;  "  I  am  glad  you  christened  the 
baby  Catherine.  Give  my  love  to  them  all— my  father, 
my  mother,  my  Pierrelo— " 

She  touched  the  spurs  to  her  horse,  and  the  party 
rode  out  through  the  gate,  which  is  called  to  this  day 
the  Gate  of  France. 


Ill 


HOUGH  Jacquemine  gave  Mengette  trou- 
ble, the  burden  of  her  life  was  Choux. 
Since  the  death  of  her  father,  Auguste 
Poulinet,  and  her  mother,  Marguerite  Val- 
las,  she  had  lived  in  her  house  with  this  relative,  whose 
exact  kinship  could  hardly  be  traced,  yet  who  was 
handed  down  as  a  charge.  Choux  was  a  humpbacked 
creature,  so  old  that  age  had  given  him  up  and  de- 
livered him  again  to  the  lithe  activities  of  youth.  He 
seemed  made  of  steel  springs.  His  joints  and  muscles 
did  not  sag  when  he  walked.  The  skin  was  so  tightly 
stretched  across  the  bones  of  his  large  features  that  it 
scarcely  wrinkled,  but,  deepening  its  brown,  became 
like  mummy  husk,  with  points  of  fire  surviving  in  the 
lively  eyes.  What  few  shreds  of  hair  he  had  clung  in 
forgotten  strands  to  the  skull ;  but  these  were  seldom 
seen,  for  Choux  wore  always  a  red  woolen  cap  tied 
under  the  chin  like  a  woman's.  This  was  as  much  a 
part  of  him  as  the  red  sash  girdling  his  clothes  around 
the  middle.  He  wore  it  indoors  and  out,  to  mass  and 
to  bed.  When  Mengette  saw  that  the  cap  would  have 
to  be  renewed,  she  made  another,  and  standing  behind 
*  49 


60  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

the  bench,  while  he  ate,  put  it  over  the  one  he  wore. 
Choux  let  the  strings  hang  down  unheeded  until  he  was 
alone.  Whatever  became  of  the  first  cap,  whether  he 
secretly  burned  it  or  buried  it  in  the  earth,  it  was  never 
seen  again.  One  pair  of  clean  strings  soon  appeared 
under  his  chin,  and  Mengette  drew  a  breath  of  relief. 

But  it  was  not  so  easy  to  get  his  garments  from  his 
body.  Choux's  instinct  was  that  an  animal's  covering 
ought  to  shed  naturally.  He  exhaled  a  hyena-like 
odor,  and  when  on  a  February  day  he  sat  by  the 
chimney,  Mengette  was  thankful  for  its  wide  throat. 
Domremy  was  not  too  sensitive  to  smells.  Chickens 
and  geese  lived  in  the  streets,  and  manure-heaps 
ripened  beside  the  front  doors.  But  public  comfort 
sometimes  demanded  that  Choux  should  change  his 
clothes ;  and  the  cure",  Father  Fronte,  was  then  obliged 
to  labor  with  him.  In  his  heart  Choux  despised  the 
offices  of  the  church,  but  he  stood  in  terror  of  having 
its  final  protection  denied  him.  When  exhortations 
and  threats  had  availed,  Mengette  flew  to  the  river 
with  his  cast-off  things.  She  had  once  anchored  them 
and  let  them  freeze,  and  as  often  as  she  could  afford 
it  she  gave  him  an  entire  new  outfit. 

Choux  had  nothing  except  a  high  regard  for  himself, 
and  he  had  not  labored  in  her  lifetime.  He  often  sat 
bragging  by  the  hour  in  the  Widow  Davide's  wine- 
shop. The  Widow  Davide,  when  a  customer  grew 
noisy,  would  take  him  by  the  ear  and  lead  him  to  the 
door,  and  it  was  his  part  to  grin  and  submit.  Choux, 
for  more  reasons  than  his  tongue,  was  of tener  led  out 
than  any  other  man ;  yet  he  never  suffered  it  without 
indignation  and  astonishment. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  61 

He  danced  before  the  wine-shop  to  show  his  con- 
tempt for  the  Widow  Davide,  and  made  a  tube  of  his 
fists,  trumpeting  through  it.  His  hump,  as  he  tilted 
and  turned,  gave  him  the  high-shouldered  appearance 
of  a  hyena.  He  sang  derisively  about  the  wine  she 
sold.  It  was  not  fit  for  dogs— dogs  would  die  of  it,  in 
fact.  He  could  marry  the  Widow  Davide  if  he  wished, 
but  who  would  marry  a  woman  that  sold  such  bad 
wine? 

"  Myself,"  proclaimed  Choux,  slapping  his  breast,  "  I 
was  brought  up  on  the  best.  Nothing  is  too  good  for 
me.  When  I  was  of  an  age  to  marry,  all  the  maids 
of  my  village  wanted  me  for  a  husband.  I  picked  the 
handsomest  and  richest,  and  when  I  was  married  my 
wife  did  nothing  but  wait  on  me.  She  sold  the  last 
goose  of  her  flock  to  provide  me  for  travel.  I  have 
seen  the  world  in  my  lifetime.  I  have  been  eastward 
as  far  as  Nancj',  and  westward  as  far  as  Bar-le-Duc ; 
and  if  my  wife  had  lived  to  work  for  me  I  might  have 
gone  farther." 

"  He  never  was  married  in  his  life,"  the  listeners  told 
one  another,  laughing.  "The  Champenois  are  great 
boasters,"  was  one  of  the  proverbs  of  Lorraine.  Choux 
came  out  of  Champagne. 

He  trumpeted  through  his  hands,  and  danced  again, 
making  a  clatter  on  the  hard  road  with  his  wooden 
shoes.  "  I  can  whip  any  man  in  the  wine-shop.  And 
this  will  be  the  case  with  me  until  I  am  ten  years  older. 
Come  out,  Widow  Davide,  and  take  me  again  by  the 
ear.  Have  a  care;  it  will  not  be  the  Burgundians 
who  next  time  set  fire  to  your  house ;  the  people  of 
Domremy  are  fond  of  me.  I  do  not  lift  a  hand  for 


52  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC 

myself.  Everything  is  done  for  me.  I  am  the  flower 
of  the  Meuse  valley." 

Through  all  his  dancing  and  boasting  the  uncanny 
creature  carried  the  natural  grace  and  airiness  of  the 
Latin.  An  Anglo-Saxon  boor,  half  tipsy  before  a 
wine-shop,  would  have  broken  the  door  or  the  head  of 
its  keeper.  Choux's  many  words  were  to  him  what 
action  is  to  the  more  forceful  race.  As  he  capered  in 
the  green  winter  twilight  Mengette  appeared  at  his 
elbow,  to  drive  him  to  shelter  as  she  had  already  driven 
her  geese.  He  knew  she  had  plenty  of  fagots  in,  and 
the  soup  steaming  before  the  fire.  He  enjoyed  the  life 
he  lived,  and  the  homely  night  sound  of  dogs  barking 
in  Greux. 

"Regard  me  now,  Widow  Davide.  My  supper  is 
ready,  with  meat  in  the  pot.  Why  do  I  ever  come  to 
your  wine-shop  to  be  poisoned  f  It  is  because  I  pity 
you.  I  am  not  above  showing  sympathy  to  a  poor 
woman  without  a  man." 

"Go  home,  Choux,"  said  Mengette,  pushing  him. 
"  The  Widow  Davide  may  declare  your  sympathy  costs 
her  more  than  I  can  pay  with  my  spinning.  There  is 
no  meat  in  the  pot.  They  laugh  at  you,  but  messire 
the  cure  will  not  laugh  if  he  sees  you  dancing  longer 
here." 

He  was  harder  to  chase  into  the  house  than  an  ob- 
durate gander,  and  no  spoon  could  fill  Choux's  mouth 
too  full  for  talk.  Mengette  was  glad  when  he  turned 
into  his  lair  for  the  night.  He  slept  in  a  room  which 
could  be  entered  only  from  the  garden ;  and  though 
there  was  a  chimney  in  it,  he  would  not  build  himself 
a  fire  or  permit  one  to  be  lighted  on  his  hearth.  He 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  63 

liked  darkness,  and  had  none  of  the  craving  of  age 
for  heat. 

But  Mengette  was  glad  of  her  own  fagots  when  she 
hooked  the  doors  and  opened  her  bed  for  the  night. 
The  light  seemed  a  protection  from  the  voice  which 
talked  with  Choux  in  darkness,  often  alternating  its 
high  boyish  note  with  Choux's  deliberate  croak  half 
the  night.  Formerly  when  any  neighbor  came  in 
after  nightfall  Choux  kept  silent;  but  since  this  un- 
seen person,  whom  he  called  Valentin,  had  begun  to 
visit  him,  he  was  so  insolently  noisy  that  Mengette 
dared  not  forecast  what  suspicions  of  sorcery  he  might 
bring  upon  himself.  She  felt  the  shame  of  an  accom- 
plice in  trying  to  endure  this  invisible  creature,  who 
doubtless  ought  to  be  proclaimed  and  put  out  of  the 
house ;  but  Mengette  shrunk  from  meddling  in  any 
way  with  the  unusual.  She  wanted  the  natural  things 
of  life  to  surround  and  protect  her  from  visions  and 
voices. 

A  hand  was  on  the  door,  and  she  unfastened  it  to 
admit  Isabel  Romee  and  Jacquemine. 

The  strong  features  of  Jeanne's  mother  were  thinned 
as  by  long  illness.  She  did  not  cast  her  eye  around 
with  the  usual  oversight  of  Mengette's  housekeeping. 
The  pots  were  in  a  neat  row,  and  the  hearth  was  scoured 
white,  and  Jacquemine  felt  satisfaction  in  sitting  down 
before  blazing  fagots  in  this  house  where  he  was  to  be 
master.  All  three  were  silent,  speechless  trouble  driv- 
ing Choux  and  his  voice  out  of  Mengette'-s  mind. 

Isabel  put  both  hands  over  her  face  an,$  leaue^  for- 
ward sobbing. 

"  Pierrelo  has  come  back  from  Vaucouleurs  alone." 


54  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

"  I  know  it,  godmother.  I  saw  him  between  Dom- 
remy  and  Greux  when  I  was  driving  in  the  geese." 

"  My  child  has  gone  into  France !  I  shall  never  see 
her  again." 

"  She  will  come  home  sometime,  godmother." 

"  No ;  she  will  come  home  no  more.  I  was  sure  of 
that  from  the  first;  but  when  I  saw  him  riding  by 
himself,  it  seemed  that  I  had  never  known  it.  Did 
Pierre  tell  you  he  brought  a  letter  from  her  ? " 

"  He  showed  me  a  folded  paper." 

"Her  father  sits  by  the  hearth,  and  will  not  turn 
his  head.  The  letter  has  been  in  his  hand  since  the 
cure  read  it  to  us.  She  had  it  written  by  a  clerk  at 
Vaucouleurs,  and  put  her  own  cross-mark  on  it,  ask- 
ing forgiveness.  My  Jehannette  is  a  good  child.  I 
am  myself  to  blame  for  urging  her  to  marriage.  In 
Vaucouleurs  they  have  a  reverence  for  her.  Pierre 
says  she  rode  out  in  man's  clothes,  and  all  the  people 
wept.  He  would  have  gone  on  her  track,  but  Durand 
Laxart  did  us  this  grace :  he  made  Pierre  come  home. 
Jacques  told  you  the  Duke  of  Lorraine  sent  from  Nancy 
for  Jehannette  to  pray  for  his  recovery." 

"  She  is  a  good  pucelle,  godmother.  When  she  told 
me  the  saints  spoke  to  her,  I  could  not  help  believing 
it." 

Isabel  shook  her  head.  The  vigorous  woman,  who 
had  little  bent  toward  the  superstition  of  her  time,  still 
denied  Jeanne's  visions.  Saints  certainly  existed  in 
a  far-off  place  called  heaven,  but  it  was  not  likely  they 
troubled  themselves  about  anything  in  this  world. 
Isabel  considered  them  vaguely  benevolent,  but  much 
taken  up  wi£h.  tuning  harps  and  singing.  More  than 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D>ARC  C5 

all,  she  felt  it  impossible  that  such  holy  beings  should 
stoop  to  members  of  her  own  family.  In  other  ages 
and  countries  heaven  had  communicated  with  blessed 
martyrs :  but  St.  Michael  had  never  shown  himself 
in  her  garden  behind  the  church;  the  child  had 
dreamed  it. 

She  wiped  her  face,  raising  it  to  meet  what  was  yet 
in  store  for  her. 

"And  now  we  must  lose  Pierrelo.  In  the  spring, 
when  the  hermit  friar  sets  out  for  Tours,  the  cure  will 
ask  him  to  take  Pierrelo  to  Jehannette.  The  lad  can 
hardly  wait  our  consent." 

Jacquemine  sat  with  his  knees  braced  together  and 
both  hands  resting  on  them.  He  now  spoke  out  with 
virtuous  determination : 

"  Myself,  I  will  never  forsake  my  father  and  mother 
to  go  to  the  wars,  even  with  their  consent." 

"  You ! "  flashed  Isabel,  unreasonably  resenting  on 
him  the  pain  inflicted  by  those  she  loved  better.  "  Yes ; 
Jacquemine  will  stay  at  home  and  be  a  daughter  to  us." 

Jacquemine  burned  scarlet,  the  blood  submerging 
his  freckles  and  mounting  into  his  sandy  hair.  Men- 
gette  resolved  that  when  he  became  her  husband  she 
would  never  make  his  eyes  fill  so  piteously.  She  said 
to  him,  "Sit  closer  to  the  fire,  Jacquemine,"  and  he 
did  so,  feeling  that  his  part  was  taken  and  comfort 
offered  him.  She  understood  a  home-keeping  nature. 
Mengette  would  not  have  left  Domremy  for  the  crown 
of  France.  She  loved  to  do  the  things  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  do,  and  sometimes  thought  of  Choux's  death 
almost  with  grief  because,  though  it  would  permit  her 
marriage,  it  must  change  her  employment.  The  longer 


56  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

she  was  betrothed  to  Jacquemine  the  more  satisfaction 
she  took  in  the  arrangement,  though  there  was  little 
chance  for  courtship,  Isabel  being  watchful,  and  Men- 
gette  having  that  discretion  which  is  given  to  some 
girls  instead  of  mothers. 

Isabel  scarcely  noticed  them.  She  stared  into  space, 
wondering  at  the  nature  that  had  outgrown  her  gui- 
dance. It  had  been  her  delight  to  train  Jeanne,  the 
child  was  so  docile  and  so  responsive  to  good.  Jeanne's 
eyes  would  fill  with  tears  at  sight  of  any  suffering. 
No  wonder  the  troubles  in  France  had  swept  her  away. 

"But  where  is  she  now?"  exclaimed  Isabel.  "My 
child  is  somewhere  out  in  the  night,  with  only  men 
around  her ! "  The  room  again  resounded  with  un- 
restrained mourning. 

"  No  one  would  hurt  Jehannette,"  declared  Mengette. 

"  It  is  true  the  men  were  all  put  under  oath  by  the 
Captain  of  Vaucouleurs  to  conduct  her  in  safety,  and 
Pierrelo  says  they  are  very  trusty  men,  and  Bertrand 
de  Poulengy  is  of  the  party.  But  my  heart  has  begun 
to  misgive  me  about  Bertrand  de  Poulengy.  One  is 
afraid  of  everything  when  one's  child  is  no  longer 
under  the  roof.  What  is  that?"  demanded  Isabel, 
with  sudden  attention.  "  I  hear  a  stranger  in  Choux's 
room." 

Mengette  swallowed  her  voice,  and  knew  that  her 
heart  was  beating  audibly.  A  rapid,  boyish  treble 
rose  higher  and  higher  in  Choux's  chamber,  and  ended 
in  shrill  laughter.  Jacquemine  drew  closer  to  the 
hearth,  fading  to  ghastliness  in  the  increased  light, 
and  seeking  Mengette's  eye  for  companionship.  He 
had  heard  Choux  boast  in  the  wine-shop  of  this  nightly 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC      *  67 

visitor,  and  had  laughed  at  it ;  for  then  it  was  broad 
daylight,  and  nobody  believed  a  word  Choux  said. 

Isabel  turned  to  her  goddaughter,  who  knew  that 
the  moment  for  telling  the  truth  had  come.  "  What 
stranger  is  staying  in  your  house  ? " 

"  It  is  no  person  at  all,  godmother.  It  is  nothing 
but  a  voice.  Choux  says  it  comes  and  talks  to  him 
every  night,  and  he  calls  it  Valentin." 

Choux's  croak  and  Valentin's  high  note  jangled  rap- 
idly together,  stopping  on  Isabel's  lips  the  accusation 
of  trickery.  Her  face  became  stupid  with  astonish- 
ment, the  blankness  changing  to  a  look  of  humiliation. 

"  How  long  has  he  had  this  voice  ? " 

"  Not  very  long,  godmother.     Only  a  few  months." 

"  Why  have  you  not  told  me  ? " 

Mengette  picked  at  her  petticoat,  and  answered,  "  I 
did  not  like  to." 

"  These  things  put  me  out  of  patience,"  said  Isabel, 
fiercely.  "  I  wonder  what  is  abroad  in  the  world,  that 
even  old  Choux  hath  taken  to  him  a  familiar  spirit? 
Run  home,  Jacquemine,  if  you  have  so  much  fear.  As 
for  me,  voices  and  visions  have  broken  my  heart.  They 
can  no  longer  fright  me." 

"  I  was  but  thinking  that  the  cure  should  come  with 
a  censer,"  Jacquemine  answered,  shrinking  against  the 
chimney. 

"  The  cure*  should  come  with  a  stout  club.  Did  Je- 
hannette  ever  hear  this  voice  of  Choux's  ?  " 

"No;  I  am  certain  she  never  did.  I  alone  have 
heard  it,  for  they  were  not  so  bold  with  their  talking 
before  Jehannette  went  away." 

The  contrasted  laughter  of  cackling  age  and  shrill 


58  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

youth  filled  the  next  chamber.  Jacquemine  repeatedly 
crossed  himself  against  that  unrestrained  second  pres- 
ence, which  grew  more  tangible  to  the  imagination 
than  Choux's  head  in  its  red  cap. 

Isabel  lost  no  time,  but  thumped  on  the  partition 
with  her  knuckles.  It  was  a  stone  wall,  but  an  open 
cupboard  was  let  into  it,  making  a  good  conductor  of 
sound. 

"  Choux,  stop  that  noise ! " 

There  was  silence.  Then  the  young  voice  in  mimi- 
cry  repeated  Isabel's  command  like  an  echo. 

"  Mengette  shall  not  stay  in  the  house  with  you, 
and  no  one  in  this  village  will  feed  you,  if  this  sorcery 
be  not  stopped.  If  you  must  play  your  tricks  with 
Satan,  go  out  in  the  fields,  where  Christian  folks  can- 
not hear.  I  am  [going  to  sleep  here  with  Mengette, 
and  I  will  have  you  up  before  messire  the  cure'  if  that 
limb  of  the  fiend  makes  any  more  disturbance  to- 
night." 

There  was  a  flurry  of  whispering,  and  when  it  ceased 
Choux  lifted  his  husky  voice  to  defy  a  woman  he 
dreaded,  but  who  stood  at  the  other  side  of  a  wall. 
"  Limb  of  the  fiend  be  named  thyself,  Isabel  Rome'e. 
Valentin,  whom  thou  hast  frighted  off,  is  as  honest  a 
creature  as  any  saint  that  ever  went  walking  in  thy 
own  garden.  It  would  have  been  better  to  listen  to 
news  from  thy  maid,  who  never  stood  in  such  peril  as 
she  stands  in  this  night." 

"Such  mock  messengers  bring  no  word  for  me. 
And  now,  mind  what  I  tell  thee :  whether  thou  hast 
a  familiar  or  art  practising  trickery,  there  shall  be  no 
more  of  it  in  this  house." 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC  59 

Isabel  listened  austerely ;  but  when  she  turned  from 
silencing  Choux  her  face  had  many  more  haggard  lines, 
which  were  not  the  marks  of  fear.  He  had  cunningly 
reminded  her  that  Jeanne  was  sleeping  in  the  open 
fields.  The  mother's  thoughts  tried  to  bridge  darkness, 
roaming  indefinitely  southwestward,  and  having  no 
means  to  come  at  the  actual  spot  near  the  river 
Aube. 

BY  bridle-paths  and  across  country  the  riders  from 
Vaucouleurs  had  achieved  more  than  nine  leagues  the 
first  day,  and  the  same  distance  the  second.  The  first 
night  they  were  received  at  the  Abbey  of  St.  Urbain, 
in  what  is  now  the  department  of  Haute-Marne,  but 
the  next  night  brought  them  to  more  dangerous 
ground.  They  descended  into  a  valley  near  the  little 
town  of  Bar-sur-Aube,  and,  avoiding  it,  forded  the 
river  some  distance  north  of  the  walls.  The  place  they 
selected  for  their  camp  was  a  cove  between  two  shoul- 
ders of  the  winding  hills.  Some  leafless  trees  sheltered 
it.  Already  there  were  monitions  of  spring  in  the  air, 
and  a  faint  green  light,  like  the  tender  apple-green  of 
the  Meuse,  swam  in  motes  between  one's  eyes  and  gray 
slopes,  until  the  world  was  blurred  by  night.  Houses 
on  the  walls  began  to  shine  like  candles.  Jeanne's 
party  lighted  no  fire,  but  ate  cold  bread  and  meat,  and 
drank  their  wine,  she  sitting  a  little  apart  from  the 
men,  and  the  servants  taking  their  portion  to  them- 
selves. 

The  dauphin's  messenger  was  a  lean,  light  man  in 
the  saddle,  running  over  with  jokes  and  songs,  which 
he  could  hardly  suppress  in  the  presence  of  the  maid 


60  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

he  was  conducting ;  but  he  was  the  first  one  to  wrap 
himself  well  in  his  cloak  and  lie  down  for  the  night. 
It  had  been  agreed  that  the  maid  was  to  be  guarded 
between  Jean  de  Metz  and  Bertrand  de  Poulengy. 
These  were  Baudricourt's  orders  when  camp  was  made 
under  the  open  sky.  So  she  lay  down  betwixt  knight 
and  squire,  with  her  peasant  dress  under  her  head  for 
a  pillow ;  and  the  old  soldier  was  soon  asleep.  But 
the  young  one  lay  awake,  with  his  face  away  from 
the  cloaked  maid  whom  he  had  so  desired  for  his 
wife. 

She  slept  with  regular,  low  breathing,  as  unconscious 
of  his  presence  as  when  he  rode  behind  her  all  day. 
She  had  no  armor.  It  was  not  necessary  for  him  to 
serve  her  as  squire ;  but  he  could  watch  unceasingly 
her  gay  eagerness  to  get  forward,  her  steadiness  in 
fording  deep  water,  the  curve  of  her  back  where  waist 
met  hips,  and  even  the  blush  of  tan  beginning  to  tint 
ears  and  cheeks  under  her  soldier's  cap.  He  lay  near 
enough  to  put  his  hand  upon  her,  yet  he  had  never  in 
his  life  felt  so  remote  from  Jeanne  d'Arc. 

Tears  swelled  his  eyeballs  and  choked  his  throat. 
The  boy  ground  his  teeth  with  an  oath  between  them, 
changing  his  oath  to  a  prayer,  the  anguish  and  unen- 
durable contradictions  of  life  filling  him  full  to  the 
lips.  In  starting  to  the  wars  he  had  counted  on  a 
sublime  self  that  had  been  wearied  out  of  his  body,  a 
high,  priestly  fellow  with  no  personal  needs  whatever ; 
and  here  he  was  the  same  Bertrand  de  Poulengy, 
heartsore,  and  full  of  fierce  youth  and  desire.  But 
while  he  lay  with  his  back  toward  Jeanne,  and  his  fists 
clenched,  feeling  like  a  dog,— a  faithful,  worshiping 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  61 

dog,  yet  one  that  was  never  to  be  rewarded  by  a  pat, 
—some  of  the  peace  which  enveloped  her  came  over 
him.  His  blood  ceased  its  rapid  beating,  and  ex- 
ternal things  seemed  to  approach  in  a  new  way  to 
divert  and  comfort  him.  He  folded  his  arms  and 
turned  his  face  toward  the  sky.  Humid  night  air, 
chill  earth,  and  vapor-strewn  stars  became  forces  for 
him  to  resist  hardily,  with  patience,  as  a  man,  and 
with  a  kind  of  toughening  of  the  spirit.  There  was 
not  one  bitter  or  unsound  spot  in  the  boy. 

"By  the  time  down  has  grown  stiff  on  my  lip," 
thought  Bertrand,  "and  I  have  seen  something  of 
battle,  I  shall  bear  this  without  making  a  fool  of  my- 
self." 

Couvre-feu  had  already  rung  in  Bar-sur-Aube ;  the 
lights  were  out ;  no  noises  came  from  the  town.  The 
full  river  whispered.  Without  knowing  it,  the  voices 
of  the  two  sullen  soldiers  and  Richard  the  archer,  who 
had  ridden  with  the  messenger  from  Chinon,  en- 
croached more  and  more  upon  the  silence.  Bertrand 
knew  they  were  sullen.  He  had  seen  them  scowl 
when  they  rubbed  down  the  horses,  and  wink  deri- 
sively at  one  another  when  the  maid  went  into  a 
thicket  with  her  rosary  in  her  hand.  One  under- 
thought  of  his  wakefulness  was  to  watch  these  men. 
The  archer  had  been  left  on  guard,  to  be  followed  by 
his  companions  in  turn ;  but  all  three  heads  were  yet 
clustered  together,  as  they  had  sat  at  their  bread  and 
meat,  with  a  bottle  going  round  from  mouth  to  mouth. 
Peril  enough  attended  this  journey  to  Chinon  without 
seeking  any  in  the  camp.  Peril  in  the  camp,  however, 
will  soon  come  seeking  him  who  lets  it  be.  Bertrand 


62  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC 

rested  on  his  elbow  and  listened.  He  would  have 
crept  toward  the  men,  but  the  letter  of  his  oath  bound 
him  to  his  place  by  Jeanne's  side  during  a  night  in  the 
fields.  Three  dim  shapes  against  the  darkness  of  the 
hills,  Richard  the  archer  and  the  two  soldiers  pushed 
their  voices  farther  and  farther  into  the  cove.  The 
humid  air  carried  cautious  sounds  in  full  volume  to 
the  listener. 

"If  the  lot  fell  to  me  I  would  do  it,"  spoke  the 
archer.  "We  have  had  enough  of  this  witch- work. 
Let  us  be  rid  of  her." 

"Since  it  comes  to  sleeping  on  the  ground,"  said 
one  soldier. 

Bertrand's  weapons,  which  hung  from  his  belt  when 
it  was  clasped,  now  lay  within  a  fold  of  his  cloak.  He 
took  the  small  ax  and  held  it  ready. 

A  murmur  of  urging  and  fragments  of  words 
reached  his  ears.  He  caught,  without  distinctly  hear- 
ing, the  men's  determination  to  throw  the  maid  into 
the  Aube,  and  then  desert  with  the  horses ;  and  reach- 
ing cautiously  over  Jeanne,  he  prodded  De  Metz  with 
the  ax-handle.  De  Metz  slept  on  like  an  honest  man. 
Bertrand  thought  this  movement  of  his  was  seen  by 
the  soldier  on  whom  the  lot  had  evidently  fallen ;  for 
the  man  paused  in  stealthy  approach,  and  slunk  back 
to  his  fellows,  being  met  by  a  low  growl  like  reviling. 

Richard  the  archer,  standing  a  foot  above  his  com- 
panions, next  stepped  forward,  and  Bertrand  held  the 
ax  ready  to  split  his  head  as  he  stooped.  But  two 
lance-lengths  beyond  the  reach  of  the  guardian's  arm 
he  seemed  to  find  a  barrier  that  he  could  not  pass,  and 
collapsing  backward  as  if  he  had  already  received  a 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC  63 

blow,  scrambled  on  hands  and  knees  toward  his  mates, 
who  uttered  a  sound  of  panic. 

Bertrand's  blood  was  all  alive,  forgetting  depression 
and  the  chill  of  the  earth.  Jealous  of  his  right  to 
protect  the  maid,  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  will  not  wake 
De  Metz."  His  own  part  of  secrecy  and  silence  amused 
him,  and  he  tingled  with  laughter  at  the  futile  at- 
tempts. 

"  The  poor  fools  really  have  no  harm  in  them ;  they 
are  only  discontented ;  and  when  they  have  done  eas- 
ing full  minds  on  one  another  they  will  go  about  their 
business." 

Yet  he  determined  to  sec  that  they  went  about  their 
business,  and  clasping  on  his  weapons,  he  stood  up  to 
follow  them.  A  swift  smiting  of  light  on  the  eyeballs, 
like  that  which  flashes  within  the  lid  when  sight 
struggles  in  pitch  darkness,  showed  him  the  archer 
and  both  soldiers  crouching  a  few  feet  away. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  he  demanded;  but 
they  did  not  hear  him.  They  did  not  look  at  him. 
A  thinning  of  the  dimness  around,  like  the  shadowed 
edge  of  light,  revealed  their  staring  eyes  and  the  sepa- 
rate hairs  bristling  on  their  unshaven  jaws. 

Jeanne  had  risen  to  her  knees  betwixt  De  Metz  and 
Bertrand,  her  muffled  figure  bent  forward,  the  fixed 
curve  of  her  body,  the  very  threads  of  her  cloak,  whit- 
ened strangely  in  the  night.  No  visible  hovering 
presence  poured  glory  on  her,  yet  she  shone.  Her 
squire,  still  holding  the  ax,  crossed  his  hands  on  his 
bosom,  feeling  drenched  by  some  divine  power. 

Long  after  Jeanne  lay  down  from  her  half-conscious 
prayer,  breathing  like  a  healthy  child,  and  long  after 


64  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

archer  and  soldiers,  separating  in  silence,  had  taken  to 
watch  or  to  hiding,  Bertrand  stood  with  his  hands 
crossed  on  his  breast.  He  knew  that  he  should  never 
speak  of  this  night  except  lightly,  but  he  wondered 
what  terror  there  could  be  for  ignorant  men  in  that 
instant's  glow  which  had  rested  on  the  maid. 


IV 


HINON  CASTLE  stood  among  clouds 
above  the  compact  walled  town  of  Chinon, 
huge  and  white,  buttressed  along  the  cliffs, 
showing  all  its  towers  and  battlements, 
from  the  horologe  portal  to  an  ancient  Roman  round 
fortress  at  its  extremity,  as  the  riders  from  Vaucou- 
leurs  approached  it  at  sunset.  The  valley  of  the  river 
Vienne,  like  so  many  of  the  valleys  of  France,  stretched 
from  the  foot  of  sheer  heights  to  far  blue  alluvial  hills. 
Touraine  was  a  rich  country  even  then,  when  large 
tracts  of  the  realm  lay  waste  and  unproductive  year 
after  year.  The  forward  spring  made  a  blur  like 
green  light  over  massed  distances,  showing,  as  no 
single  tree  by  the  river  could  do,  revival  of  life  in 
buds. 

Some  fishermen  were  in  a  boat,  poling  over  the  rocky 
bottom  of  the  Vienne.  Its  dark-green  water  in  shady 
places  took  the  color  of  ale.  As  the  party  from  Vau- 
couleurs  crossed  the  bridge,  the  town  gates  were 
opened,  and  the  dauphin's  messenger  came  out  to 
meet  them. 

"You  have  made  good  speed  to-day  without  me," 
5  65 


66  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

he  said,  wheeling  his  horse  to  enter  beside  De  Metz, 
who  led  the  company ;  "  but  it  is  a  plain  journey  from 
St.  Katherine  de  Fierbois  to  Chinon.  How  many 
masses  did  the  maid  hear  yesterday  while  she  rested 
in  the  church  of  St.  Katherine  ? "  l 

"Only  three,"  answered  De  Metz.  His  smile  was 
indulgent,  but  the  courtier's  was  mocking.  "And 
every  man  of  us,  constrained  to  rub  his  knees  so  long 
on  that  stone  floor,  was  fain  to  envy  you  riding  for- 
ward at  ease,  with  a  letter  to  the  dauphin,  and  the 
end  of  the  journey  in  sight." 

The  horses  neighed  when  the  gates  closed  after  them, 
scenting  shelter  and  provender.  Nimble-footed,  they 
picked  their  way  through  lanes  of  overhanging  houses 
crowded  to  the  hill  beneath  the  castle  buttresses,  re- 
membering no  more  their  twelve  days'  beating  across 
varying  soils  of  France.  By  way  of  Auxerre,  Gien, 
Salbris,  Ramorantin,  Selles,  St.  Aignan,  Loches,  and 
the  parish  church  of  St.  Katherine  de  Fierbois,  they 
had  brought  their  riders  without  mishap  to  Chinon. 
The  horse  which  Durand  Laxart  had  provided  for 
Jeanne  stepped  soberly  behind  De  Metz's ;  her  squire 
reined  his,  more  spirited,  a  pace  behind.  Two  or  three 
church  towers  seemed  to  hold  the  light  of  the  March 
sunset  which  ascending  little  streets  so  readily  lost. 

"  Deputies  from  Orleans  are  now  at  the  castle,"  said 
the  dauphin's  messenger;  "they  have  come  to  hasten 
this  business  about  the  maid." 

"I  call  that  good  news,"  answered  the  knight. 
"  And  since  the  expense  of  this  expedition  has  rested 

1  St.  Catherine's  name  is  thus  spelled  in  all  records  concern- 
ing this  parish  church. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC  67 

on  me,  and  the  three  troublesome  knaves  behind  our 
backs  are  certain  to  demand  their  pay  at  once,  the 
dauphin  will  doubtless  soon  put  my  mind  at  rest 
about  the  scores." 

"  Oh,  doubtless ;  or  Messire  Alan  Chartier  will  make 
you  a  song  which  will  give  your  mind  great  ease.  We 
will  all  share  our  tranquillity  with  you;  but  if  you 
expect  to  find  any  money  at  Chinon  you  will  be  disap- 
pointed. Jacques  Coeur  of  Bourges  is  the  only  man 
in  this  poor  kingdom  that  hath  any  gold ;  and  sage  as 
that  generous  goldsmith  is,  he  will  be  stripped  before 
this  business  with  England  be  finished.  I  myself  am 
used  to  eating  sheep's  legs  at  Chinon,  where  the  king 
hath  not  even  a  comfit-box  to  pass  to  the  ladies.  But 
if  I  told  other  good  fellows  at  court  that  you  came 
with  a  full  pouch,  you  would  not  have  pieces  enough 
to  divide  among  the  borrowers." 

"  In  that  case  the  dauphin  might  as  well  stand  in- 
debted to  me.  In  truth,  this  is  the  first  time  I  have 
taken  thought  about  my  money,  for  the  maid  was 
welcome  for  her  own  sake,  and  I  must  abide  by  the 
good  or  bad  that  comes  of  this  venture.  But  I  hope 
we  shall  have  leave  to  go  to  Orleans  soon." 

"I  think  myself  it  promises  well  that  the  envoys 
from  Orleans  are  here.  But  a  king  is  not  the  only 
person  that  governs  a  realm,  Messire  de  Metz." 

A  few  dogs  barked  at  the  cavalcade,  but  the  quiet 
villagers  paid  little  attention  to  it.  There  was  much 
coming  and  going  betwixt  court  and  distressed  king- 
dom. A  man  blind  in  his  left  eye  and  lame  in  his 
right  foot  was  dipping  a  two-handled  jug  in  the  public 
fountain,  and  singing.  The  sweet,  tremulous  tenor 


68  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

spread  through  the  valley,  and  followed  Jeanne  as  she 
ascended  to  the  castle,  like  music  sent  to  encourage 
her. 

The  dauphin's  messenger  made  his  party  dismount 
at  the  inn,  where  the  horses  were  to  be  left,  and  where 
even  the  big  cook,  white  as  flour  from  head  to  foot, 
came  out  to  help  hold  bridles  5  and  he  then  took  the 
most  direct  path,  which  was  a  paved  gutter  between 
walls  scarcely  two  arms'  lengths  apart.  A  door  stood 
open  at  one  side,  showing  a  dark  interior,  lighted  only 
by  a  red  hearth  with  a  child's  head  against  the  shine, 
and  Bertrand  was  startled  to  see  that  these  continuous 
walls  were  house-fronts.  Voices  of  women  were  heard 
talking  within  the  stone.  A  thread  of  water  moved 
down  the  depressed  center  of  the  way.  Winding,  this 
path  led  up  to  a  broad  track  which  turned  upon  itself 
and  faced  the  castle.  Chinon  had  been  a  favorite  seat 
of  English  kings  before  it  passed  into  the  hands  of  the 
French.  A  huge  gray  ruin,  the  ancient  Abbey  of  St. 
George  extended  along  the  height  like  a  detached  out- 
work of  the  castle.  Its  thick  walls  had  been  burrowed 
into  by  poor  wretches  who  stood  gaunt-faced  at  their 
doors  and  looked  at  the  arriving  maid.  Living  so 
near  the  royal  gates,  they  had  heard  of  her,  and  they 
witnessed  the  insolence  of  a  drunken  soldier  who  came 
down  the  slope  and  boldly  stumbled  against  her.  Ber- 
trand de  Poulengy  struck  him  out  of  the  way. 

"  Jarnedieu !  "  the  soldier  snarled,  using  the  common 
oath  of  his  class. 

"  Dost  thou  jarnedieu,"  said  Jeanne,  piteously,  turn- 
ing to  follow  him  with  her  eyes— "thou  who  art  so 
near  death  ? " 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AKC  69 

The  warder  lowered  a  long  drawbridge  across  the 
moat,  and  the  clock  struck  high  above  their  heads  as 
they  passed  through  the  tower  of  the  horologe.  From 
this  portal  a  sunken  road  guarded  by  masonry  ascended 
to  a  wide  garden.  The  glow  of  sunset  lingered  on 
winding  paths,  and  masses  of  trees,  and  banks  where 
roses  would  be  rankly  abundant  in  their  season. 
Though  birches,  oaks,  and  shrubs  were  yet  leafless, 
they  almost  hid  the  royal  chateau,  to  which  it  seemed 
a  far  cry  from  the  gate.  Nothing  was  spoken  until 
the  party  came  to  this  pile,  buttressed  along  the  cliff, 
and  looking  with  large  stone-cased  windows  over  val- 
ley and  height. 

"  This  is  the  middle  chateau,  where  the  king  rests," 
said  the  royal  messenger;  and  Jeanne  would  have 
turned  aside  to  the  great  entrance. 

"  You  are  not  to  be  lodged  here,"  he  told  her ;  "  you 
go  yonder  to  the  tower  of  Coudray,  beyond  the  inner 
moat." 

They  passed  the  long  palace  side,  seeing  no  face  look 
down  in  welcome,  and  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  in- 
ner moat.  Instead  of  water  a  fleece  of  springing  grass 
covered  the  depths  of  this  wide  and  sheltered  moat. 
A  curtain  of  stone  connected  a  high  tower  on  the  moat 
bank  with  another  battlemented  tower  built  into  the 
buttressed  cliff  wall.  There  was  an  archway  in  the 
curtain  at  the  end  of  the  bridge,  through  which  they 
passed  to  the  tower  of  Coudray  on  the  right  hand.  It 
rose  between  two  wings  of  masonry.  The  farther  one 
was  expanded  to  a  chapel,  but  the  nearer  one  seemed 
merely  a  sheltered  entrance  to  a  stone  staircase  built 
up  ^o  the  first  floor  of  the  tower.  Joints  of  creepers 


70  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AKC 

clung  about  its  corners  and  massed  over  its  sashless 
window.  Wherever  a  rock  had  crumbled,  little  tufts 
of  green  were  coming  generously  out  to  meet  the.Tou- 
raine  sun. 

"Ascend  here,  pucelle,"  said  the  dauphin's  mes- 
senger ;  "  and  wait  until  I  see  the  king.  Women  will 
be  sent  to  attend  you.  Here  is  better  footing  than  on 
the  inner  stairs." 

"But  when  shall  I  see  the  dauphin?"  inquired 
Jeanne.  Her  guide  made  a  gesture  which  counseled 
patience. 

"  It  hath  struck  seven  of  the  clock,"  ventured  Ber- 
trand.  "  Perhaps  his  Majesty  is  now  at  supper." 

"  The  king  dines  at  seven  in  Chinon,"  said  the  mes- 
senger ;  "  and  I  have  never  seen  him  so  bent  on  affairs 
of  state  that  he  abated  his  natural  habits." 

"  Messire  Colet,"  said  Jeanne,  using  her  guide's  name 
with  a  power  of  entreaty  which  pierced  a  courtier's 
indifference,  "  go  you  at  once  to  the  dauphin,  and  tell 
him  I  am  here  and  must  see  him." 

"  It  shall  be  done,  pucelle ;  but  you  yourself  need 
food;  and  rest  also  you  need  after  ten  days  in  the 
saddle,  and  no  repose  and  comfort  except  what  you 
could  take  upon  your  knees  on  the  stones  of  St. 
Katherine  de  Fierbois." 

Jeanne  turned  laughing  from  her  ascent  of  the 
stairs,  and  clapped  her  guide  on  the  back  with  a  sud- 
den palm. 

"  I  wish  I  had  ten  thousand  such  men  as  these,  all 
armed  and  equipped,  and  ready  to  march  this  minute. 
We  would  make  short  work  of  the  English  in  France." 

The  astonished  messenger  saw  her  shut  the  door 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC  71 

of  the  tower  before  he  turned  to  De  Metz  and  the 
squire. 

"Hath  she  not  a  strange  effect  on  a  man?  You 
would  say  she  is  a  child  driven  by  some  power  toward 
bloody  war;  yet  when  you  see  her  riding  at  speed, 
with  her  throat  swelled  out  and  her  shoulders  back, 
or  when  she  rouses  you  with  a  stroke  like  that,  you 
want  to  unsheathe  a  sword  and  shout." 

He  led  Jeanne's  escort  around  to  the  front  of  the 
tower,  where  a  door  let  them  into  a  dark  circular  in- 
closure. 

"I  call  this  a  beastly  place,"  growled  the  archer. 
"  In  Vaucouleurs  we  had  better  stables  for  cattle." 

"  This  dungeon  is  only  the  guard-room  of  the  tower," 
said  the  messenger;  "but  over  yonder,  beyond  St. 
Martin's  Chapel,  we  have  some  deep  underground 
cells,  with  irons  in  the  walls,  for  such  fellows  as  you, 
my  good  bowman.  If  you  bring  a  proud  stomach  to 
Chinon,  you  will  be  let  down  out  of  daylight,  as  many 
a  better  man  hath  been  before  your  time." 

"A  soldier  needs  nothing  but  a  bench  and  the 
earthen  floor,"  said  De  Metz;  "but  I  would  be  glad 
to  know  that  the  maid  hath  better  accommodations 
above." 

"  She  has  two  commodious  chambers,  one  over  the 
other,  for  herself  and  the  ladies  who  will  be  sent  to 
bear  her  company.  And  now,  messire  knight,  set 
your  guard,  and  I  will  show  you  and  the  squire  where 
you  are  to  lodge." 

"  Let  me  stay  with  the  guard  until  company  is  sent 
to  the  pucelle,"  requested  Bertrand ;  and  his  forward- 
ness was  not  rebuked.  He  sat  down  near  the  door, 


72  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC 

Richard  the  archer  being  left  as  sentinel  at  the  foot  of 
the  inner  stairs.  Richard  could  see  nothing  but  cross- 
tracery  of  distant  boughs  or  chapel  walls  through  the 
door,  while  his  watcher  could  also  see  the  Roman  tower, 
and  much  nearer  something  like  a  colossal  chimney- 
top  standing  half  the  length  of  a  man  above  ground. 
Wliile  Bertrand  sat  there  some  serving-men  descended 
into  it  by  means  of  a  ladder,  and  he  learned  afterward 
that  it  was  an  entrance  to  the  subterranean  storehouses 
of  the  castle. 

Ten  days'  resentment  broke  silence  with  the  archer. 
"  I  need  no  spy  over  me,  messire  innkeeper.  I  stood 
at  guard  before  thou  wert  born." 

"  Age  never  improves  a  knave,"  retorted  Bertrand. 
"  Stand  back,  there !  I  would  as  lief  stick  thee  in  the 
ribs  as  not.  I  have  scarce  been  able  to  keep  my  hands 
off  thee  and  thy  two  fellows  since  the  night  by  Bar- 
sur-Aube." 

Though  far  from  claiming  social  equality  with  the 
squire,  the  bowman  resented  being  ranked  with  ser- 
vant-soldiers who  had  not  yet  risen  to  be  men-at-arms. 
In  every  body  of  troops  the  archers  were  most  numer- 
ous. A  lifetime  of  practice  went  to  the  making  of 
their  skill,  while  any  varlet  could  soon  learn  the  trade 
of  man-at-arms.  Richard  coarsely  sneered  and  put  his 
knuckles  on  his  hips  at  mention  of  his  two  fellows, 
but  his  face  changed  at  mention  of  the  night  by  Bar- 
sur-Aube. 

"  Come,"  said  Bertrand,  "  tell  me  what  you  saw,  and 
I  will  never  mention  the  matter  to  the  dauphin.  The 
pucelle  is  now  safe  in  Chinon,  but  he  might  clap  you 
in  irons  for  conspiring  to  drown  her,  if  he  knew  it. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  73 

I  will  pledge  you  also  the  silence  of  Messire  de  Metz, 
though  we  are  both  resolved  you  go  no  farther  in  our 
company.  What  made  you  three  knaves  pick  up  your 
heels  every  time  you  approached  her  ? " 

"I  do  not  know,  messire."  Richard's  eyes  were 
uneasy  and  his  figure  was  dejected. 

"Did  you  see  any  apparition?" 

"I  will  tell  thee,  Messire  de  Poulengy,  I  am  glad 
this  business  is  done,  and  I  wish  to  be  no  more  about 
the  maid.  While  no  man  likes  spying,  I  am  well 
enough  pleased  to  have  thee  on  that  bench  as  twilight 
falls,  before  torch  be  lighted  in  this  vault." 

"What  did  you  see  at  Bar-sur-Aube ? "  Bertrand 
repeated  with  impatience. 

"Nothing,  messire— nothing.  It  was  the  feeling. 
We  all  had  it.  I  would  rather  be  scalded  with  boiling 
oil,  or  take  a  shaft  through  my  body,  than  ever  have 
it  again.  She  may  be  a  maid  of  God,  but  my  flesh 
creepeth  on  coming  near  her.  Something  hath  guard 
over  her  that  an  honest  soldier  cannot  abide." 

"You  did  not  see  the  awful  archangel  St.  Michael 
hovering  above  her  ? " 

"No,  messire." 

"  You  did  not  see  St.  Margaret  and  St.  Catherine, 
one  on  each  side  of  her,  St.  Margaret's  dragon  trailing 
across  De  Metz,  and  St.  Catherine  resting  her  wheel 
on  a  fold  of  my  cloak  ? " 

"Xo,  messire,"  the  bowman  answered,  a  shudder 
going  -with  his  words. 

"  It  is  well  for  you  that  you  did  not  see  them.  The 
sight  of  them  slays  men  that  have  the  intention  to  do 
murder." 


74  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

"  I  pray  God  I  may  never  see  them,"  said  Richard, 
devoutly. 

"Although  you  are  a  sinful  man,"  observed  Ber- 
trand,  "  I  think  your  prayer  will  be  answered.  And 
see  to  it,  you  three,  that  you  make  early  confession. 
It  is  dangerous  to  be  in  the  neighborhood  of  such  a 
maid  with  sin  on  your  conscience." 

"We  are  all  agreed  on  that,  messire.  At  first  I 
thought  she  was  a  witch ;  but  now,  though  I  have  such 
terror  of  her  as  I  never  had  of  woman,  I  know  she  is 
not  holpen  of  the  devil." 

"  You  would  be  more  at  your  ease  in  her  company 
if  she  were  ? " 

"  Yes,  messire ;  whereas,  after  that  feeling  she  gave 
me,  I  am  loath  even  to  swear  in  her  hearing." 

"  That  must  work  you  great  discomfort.  The  knight 
of  Novelopont  will  get  you  placed  where  you  can  curse 
in  peace,  and  kill  with  more  advantage  to  the  dauphin." 

The  rush  of  women's  clothes,  rather  than  the  sound 
of  footsteps,  startled  the  squire  from  his  bench.  As 
he  hurried  past  the  window  of  that  extension  which 
sheltered  the  outer  staircase,  he  saw  two  figures  ascend- 
ing. One  was  an  elderly  woman,  servant  or  duenna, 
and  before  her  ran,  light-footed,  a  creature  of  elegant 
back,  wearing  a  high  conical  head-dress  from  which 
floated  a  cloud  of  gauze. 

"These  be  the  dames  sent  from  court,"  thought 
Bertrand. 

But  Jeanne,  sitting  in  the  upper  chamber  by  a 
window  overlooking  valley  and  middle  chateau,  turned 
at  the  small  pat  of  footsteps,  and  saw  only  a  maid 
entering  from  the  stairs. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  75 

It  was  a  delicately  fashioned,  blue-eyed,  white  and 
rose-red  maid,  with  square  brows  and  a  full,  oval  face. 
The  hair  was  drawn  up  from  her  high  forehead  and 
concealed  under  her  head-dress.  Though  the  face  was 
shown  thus  freely,  and  all  of  the  well-set  neck,  its 
sweet  modesty  was  its  first  charm.  Jeanne  stood  up 
to  receive  her,  but  she  made  a  gesture  of  greeting,  and 
drew  a  chair  for  herself  near  the  window,  measuring 
Jeanne's  male  hose  and  cuirass  with  the  swift  and 
critical  inspection  of  youth. 

"  You  are  the  maid  from  Vaucouleurs  ? " 

"Yes,  demoiselle." 

"I  saw  you  pass  under  the  chateau  windows,  and 
slipped  away  directly  to  see  you.  My  name  is  Agnes 
Sorel.  My  aunt  is  lady  in  waiting  to  the  Queen  of 
Sicily,  his  Majesty's  mother-in-law." 

She  drew  in  her  breath  with  pretty  haste,  and  added  : 
"  Let  us  have  some  talk  before  the  old  duennas  come. 
You  are  to  have  two  of  the  most  tiresome  women  at 
court  put  in  here  to  take  care  of  you.  By  that  ar- 
rangement we  get  rid  of  them,  and  they  feel  their  se- 
lection a  mark  of  royal  favor." 

"  I  did  not  come  to  women ;  I  came  to  see  the  dau- 
phin," said  Jeanne. 

"  Here  we  do  not  say  the  dauphin,"  observed  Agnes. 
"Charles  is  our  king,  having  been  consecrated  at 
Poitiers.  That  little  beast  Louis,  the  king's  son,  is 
the  dauphin;  and  if  he  lives— which  God  forbid!  — 
will  some  day  be  Louis  XI  of  France,  provided  the 
English  leave  us  any  France." 

The  eagerness  of  the  one,  so  unlike  the  quiet  power 
of  the  other,  seemed  to  work  a  sudden  embarrassment 


76  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC 

between  the  two  maids.  Agnes,  however,  drew  her 
chair  still  nearer  to  Jeanne.  In  this  high  tower  a 
primrose  daylight  lingered,  reflecting  its  glow  upon 
them  from  the  circular  stone  walls.  No  tapestry  was 
hung  here,  but  both  bedchambers  of  Coudray  were 
provided  with  all  that  women  then  used  in  their 
dressing-  and  sleeping-rooms. 

"  Do  you  like  to  wear  the  habit  of  a  man  ? " 

"  The  habit  matters  nothing,"  answered  Jeanne.  "  I 
am  obliged  to  wear  it  to  do  what  I  am  sent  to  do." 

"  And  will  you  really  ask  the  king  to  send  you  to 
war?" 

"  I  will  go  to-morrow,  demoiselle,  if  he  but  give  me 
men-at-arms." 

Agnes  rested  her  full,  oval  chin  on  a  hand  so  sensi- 
tively white  and  fine  that  Jeanne  reflected  that  it  could 
never  have  twisted  wool  betwixt  finger  and  thumb,  or 
washed  at  the  river. 

"  One  can  see  you  are  no  fool.  I  have  myself  some- 
times felt  in  a  rage  to  go  to  war,  or  to  do  anything 
which  would  stir  this  lazy  Charles.  He  is  the  sweetest 
king  that  ever  drew  breath.  Do  you  see  that  great 
stone  shaft  on  the  back  of  the  middle  chateau?"  she 
suddenly  inquired.  "  That  is  an  oubliette.  The  cour- 
tiers say  nothing  about  it,  but  every  one  knows  it  is 
an  oubliette,  and  is  entered  from  the  upper  floor  of 
the  chateau.  There  a  trap  drops  one  to  the  very 
depths  of  this  rock,  and  a  sluice  carries  one's  body  into 
the  river,  and  no  person  the  wiser,  and  all  trace  lost. 
Oh,  many  a  king  has  dropped  his  enemies  down  that 
oubliette;  but  Charles  has  never  used  it  in  his  life. 
I  should  use  it.  Long  since  would  that  machinery 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  77 

have  been  oiled  and  set  in  motion  if  I  had  been  king, 
and  the  first  person  sent  down  the  shaft  would  have 
been  Georges  la  Tremouille." 

"  Who  is  Georges  la  Tremouille  ? " 

"Did  you  never  hear  of  the  king's  favorite?  If 
France  be  altogether  lost  to  the  English,  it  will  be  his 
fault.  Indeed,  there  is  not  a  soul  near  the  king  who 
cares  what  becomes  of  France,  unless  it  be  the  Queen 
of  Sicily,  who  has  bestirred  herself  for  all  the  troops 
raised.  I  despise  king's  favorites,"  said  the  child 
courtier,  with  fervor.  "  I  am  only  poor  Agnes  Sorel 
of  Loches,  but  I  can  see  through  that  La  Tremouille. 
He  will  not  suffer  any  one  to  be  near  Charles  except 
himself,  and  hath  even  sent  the  queen  away  to  tend 
the  nursery  of  the  little  beast  of  a  dauphin.  Yet  he 
loves  neither  the  king  nor  the  realm.  He  simply  wishes 
to  be  master  at  court.  You  will  have  to  pass  him  be- 
fore you  get  leave  to  face  the  English,  pucelle.  My 
aunt  has  heard  it  said  he  is  in  league  with  them.  He 
has  a  chateau  at  Sully-sur-Loire,  near  Orleans;  but 
the  English,  however  they  go  about  meddling  with 
France,  never  trouble  him." 

Agnes  lifted  a  finger  to  silence  her  own  rapid  talk, 
and  turned  her  head  to  listen  as  the  woman  who  had 
entered  the  tower  with  her  repeated  a  call  on  the  stairs. 

"  Your  old  cats  are  coming,  pucelle.  I  am  warned 
to  go." 

"Will  you  carry  a  message  for  me  to  the  dauphin, 
demoiselle  ? " 

"  Gladly  would  I ;  but  my  aunt  does  not  yet  permit 
me  to  have  speech  with  the  king.  I  am  too  young  and 
insignificant.  I  am  not  of  the  court,  indeed,  but  only 


78  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

taking  a  peep  at  it  from  my  convent  at  Loches,  to  be 
sent  directly  back.  But  I  can  use  my  eyes  and  ears, 
and  they  should  be  serviceable  to  you  if  my  aunt  per- 
mitted me  to  stay  at  Chinon." 

She  had  reached  the  stairs.  She  turned  and  faced 
the  tall  maid  standing  in  man's  clothes  against  the 
fading  window.  They  looked  at  each  other  with  a 
long  look.  Agnes  Sorel's  face  whitened  with  pas- 
sionate earnestness,  forecasting  the  power  of  her  ma- 
turity, when  she  should  be  called  "belle  des  belles," 
and  reign  like  a  queen  for  the  good  of  the  kingdom. 

"  Pucelle,  I  may  never  see  you  again.  We  are  very 
different,  but  we  both  love  France.  And  I  shall  love 
France  better  as  long  as  I  live  because  I  have  seen 
you.  Good  day." 

"  Good  day,  demoiselle.     Pray  for  me." 


TARS  came  out  over  Chinon,  and  the  air 
was  warm,  unlike  the  crisp  March  night 
air  of  Domremy.  Jeanne  had  eaten  her 
supper,  but  she  remained  by  the  upper 
window  of  the  tower  thinking  of  her  coming  audience 
with  the  dauphin.  She  could  not  sleep,  as  did  the  two 
elderly  ladies  of  the  court  in  the  chamber  under  her ; 
but,  sitting  on  the  broad  sill,  she  watched  the  lights  of 
the  middle  chateau,  and  harkened  to  sounds  across 
the  moat. 

There  were  delicious  strains  of  music,  sometimes  a 
roar  of  laughter,  or  a  hint  of  women's  voices  rising  and 
falling  in  chorus.  Jeanne  heard  the  clock  strike  in  its 
high,  distant  place;  but  time  was  nothing  to  these 
courtiers  in  the  middle  chateau,  who,  according  to  the 
words  of  the  young  demoiselle,  cared  so  little  what  be- 
came of  France.  To  a  Lorraine  peasant  the  sovereign 
was  more  sacred  than  the  nearest  relation.  She  was 
angry  with  his  friends ;  and  when  a  flare  of  torch-light 
came  around  the  front  of  the  palace,  the  maid  leaned 
out  amazed. 
Muffled  ladies  lifting  their  long  mantles  from  the 


80  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

damp  of  the  ground,  and  men  in  rich  colors  and 
plumed  hats  picking  their  way  with  pointed  shoes, 
flocked  toward  her  tower  across  the  moat  bridge. 
Jeanne's  heart  pounded  in  her  side.  It  could  not  be 
that  the  dauphin  was  sending  this  gay  train  to  bring 
her  into  his  presence.  But  she  saw  Charles  himself  in 
the  midst  of  it.  Where  was  there  a  child  in  the  Meuse 
valley  who  did  not  know  the  traits  of  the  house  of 
Valois  ?  Burgundy,  the  younger  branch  of  this  house, 
brought  forth  strong,  dark  men ;  Orleans,  the  kingly 
branch,  men  of  sanguine  complexion  and  soft  hair. 
Yet  all  had  the  same  aquiline  features,  marked  chins, 
and  outward  turning  of  the  edges  of  the  lips.  Jeanne 
needed  no  one  to  show  her  the  dauphin,  stepping  be- 
tween torch-bearers,  in  a  long  robe  which  covered  him, 
the  smoke  filming  above  his  fair  head,  his  laughing, 
unconcerned  eyes  roving  the  little  world  about  him. 

With  a  patter  like  a  flock  of  sheep  the  light  footsteps 
of  the  company  wheeled  to  the  left,  and  they  went  on 
with  their  torches  to  the  battlemented  tower  of  Boissy, 
followed  by  a  long,  gay  fellow  in  black,  carrying  in 
his  arms  an  instrument  on  which  he  made  tripping 
melody  as  he  went.  Jeanne  could  see  from  her  height 
the  flat  top  of  the  tower  of  Boissy,  with  its  parapet  of 
stone.  The  curtain  of  masonry  along  the  moat  ran 
like  a  path  from  one  tower  to  the  other.  Torchmen 
stepped  outside  the  parapet,  and  stood  on  an  open  stone 
platform  supporting  the  battlements,  and  in  the  ring 
of  smoky  light  which  they  formed  the  lute  struck  up, 
and  Charles's  little  court,  hilarious  with  its  freak  in  the 
mild  March  night,  flung  mufflers  aside,  and  made  the 
pavement  resound  with  their  dancing. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  81 

Orleans  was  nearly  surrounded  by  the  English,  and 
whole  villages  in  France  stood  as  empty  as  kennels. 
In  the  Solange  country  there  had  been  no  plowing  or 
sowing  for  years,  and  women  as  gaunt  as  wolves  tried 
to  nourish  little  living  skeletons  at  their  breasts.  Rob- 
bers were  in  every  province.  The  infant  king  of  Eng- 
land was  crowned  in  Paris,  while  the  dauphin  of 
France  had  neither  army  nor  crown ;  his  last  hope 
was  slipping  from  him  with  Orleans :  and  he  and  his 
people  went  merrily  out  in  the  night  to  dance  on  the 
top  of  a  tower ! 

It  was  not  until  the  next  evening  that  the  ladies  who 
attended  Jeanne  came  to  tell  her  that  the  king  was 
ready  to  give  her  audience.  All  day  she  had  been  tor- 
mented by  courtiers,  who  ran  up  the  stairs  to  look  at 
her,  or  followed  her  into  the  chapel  of  St.  Martin, 
where  she  went  to  pray.  One  was  a  lean  boy  in  a 
page's  dress,  who  craned  his  neck  around  a  pillar  of 
the  chapel ;  the  corners  of  his  mouth  turned  upward 
with  the  habit  of  laughter.  She  felt  moved  to  put  on 
a  calm  front  while  she  was  watched,  and  to  let  none 
of  them  catch  her  weeping ;  so,  with  a  quick  pass  of 
her  hands  through  her  £\ort  hair,  she  said  to  those 
prudent  ladies  whom  Agnes  Sorel  called  the  old 
cats: 

"En  nom  De,  if  the  dauphin  be  ready  to  see  me, 
take  me  before  him  at  once." 

They  first  took  her,  with  the  gentle  hands  of  women 
accustomed  to  robe  royalty,  to  a  long  garment  lying 
ready  upon  a  bench,  and  one  of  them  began  to  un- 
fasten her  cuirass. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  asked  Jeanne. 


82  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

"  Preparing  you  for  audience  with  the  king.  One 
must  put  on  a  court  dress  when  one  goes  to  court." 

"  I  never  in  my  life  trailed  cloth  after  me  on  the 
ground.  I  cannot  wear  it,"  said  Jeanne,  eying  the 
folds  doubtfully ;  "let  me  be  as  I  am." 

"But  thou  art  a  maid,"  urged  one  of  the  dames. 
"  It  is  not  fitting  that  a  maid  should  go  before  the  king 
in  man's  tunic  and  hose." 

"  Then  I  will  put  on  my  short  peasant  dress,  that  I 
brought  behind  my  saddle  from  Vaucouleurs." 

"But  the  king,"  suggested  one  of  the  ladies,  for 
neither  of  the  two  found  her  easy  to  command,  "  is  a 
nice  observer  of  women's  clothes.  I  remember  hearing 
him  praise  to  the  queen  a  hennin  that  had  the  front 
bent  down  to  make  scallops  along  the  brow." 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  hennins?"  exclaimed 
Jeanne.  "What  are  hennins?" 

"  Hennins  are  high,  pointed  head-coverings." 

"The  kind  of  hennin  for  me  is  a  casque  of  steel. 
You  cannot  make  a  court  lady  of  me."  Curious  and 
impatient,  she  examined  the  long  dark  robe  edged  with 
white,  unwilling  to  be  rude  to  the  two  shadow-like  at 
tendants.  Her  young  delight  in  colors  and  her  sense 
of  what  was  fitting  for  Jeanne  d'Arc  rej  ected  it.  "  Give 
me  my  cloak." 

"  But  will  you  not  put  on  the  court  dress  ? " 

"  The  high  steward  is  waiting  to  conduct  you,"  said 
the  other  lady,  "  and  time  presses." 

"  En  nom  De,  I  will  go  to  the  dauphin  as  I  am." 

An  ascent  of  broad  steps  gave  entrance  to  the  great 
hall  of  the  middle  chateau.  Sixty  feet  distant,  at  the 
end  of  the  vaulted  room,  was  a  chimney  of  white  stone 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  83 

with  square  pillars  upholding  its  penthouse.  A  pair 
of  andirons  with  posset-cups  stood  nearly  as  high  as 
the  chimney-breast.  A  noble  fire  blazed  here,  reflected 
by  the  polished  oak  boards  of  the  floor ;  candles  were 
lighted,  and  fifty  torches  were  fastened  along  the 
walls,  burning  clearly,  and  showing  the  whiteness  of 
Chinon  stone,  which  gave  all  masonry  such  a  ghostly 
look  by  night;  for  the  only  pieces  of  tapestry  were 
hung  at  the  sides  of  the  chimney,  showing  miracles 
performed  by  St.  Martin.  Each  window,  recessetf  in 
the  thick  wall,  had  its  two  opposite  splayed  seats  of 
stone,  worn  by  much  lounging. 

The  court  had  gathered  with  full  curiosity  to  see 
the  sorceress.  Though  Chinon  was  a  secure  place, 
well  removed  from  the  seat  of  war,  it  was  dull  in  the 
month  of  March  before  Easter  festivities  came  on. 
Three  hundred  knights  and  nobles  were  in  the  hall, 
each  wearing  the  color  of  the  lady  he  affected ;  and 
beautiful,  spirited  women,  priests  and  court  officers, 
walked  to  and  fro,  carrying  the  light  on  their  raiment. 
Their  talk  came  to  Jeanne,  as  she  ascended,  like  the 
humming  of  bees. 

Yolande,  the  dowager  Queen  of  Sicily,  stood  kindly 
near  the  entrance  to  greet  and  put  at  ease  a  poor  maid 
whom  she  had  begged  to  have  at  Chinon.  The  young 
man-at-arms  brought  in  by  the  high  steward,  with 
bare  forehead  and  short  hair  flying  about  her  delicate 
ears,  confused  the  queen,  who  had  herself  sent  a  fitting 
court  dress  to  the  maid.  "While  she  looked  for  a  timid 
peasant  to  follow  this  straight-limbed  youth,  Jeanne 
walked  up  the  hall  toward  the  dauphin. 

He  stood  in  the  midst  of  courtiers,  least  distin- 


84  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

guished  of  all  by  his  dress ;  but  she  who  had  carried 
his  image  in  mind  from  childhood  could  easily  choose 
him.  Charles  was  not  more  than  ten  years  older  than 
Jeanne.  He  had  the  beauty  of  young  manhood,  and 
was  of  an  imposing  figure  out  of  armor,  which  be- 
trayed the  weak  outline  of  his  legs.  The  sweetest 
king  who  ever  drew  breath  was  languorous  and  gentle 
in  his  manner,  kindly  toward  the  pleasant  side  of  the 
world,  and  most  attractive  to  women. 

The  courtiers  let  Jeanne  pass  through  the  midst  of 
them,  regarding  her  with  the  eyes  of  people  accus- 
tomed to  laugh  for  pastime,  until  she  reached  the 
middle  of  the  hall,  when  one  of  them  stepped  back- 
ward with  continuous  bowing,  and  directed  her  to  a 
person  gorgeous  with  decorations. 

"  The  king." 

"  But  why  do  you  tell  me  that  ? "  inquired  Jeanne, 
surprised  that  they  should  want  to  make  game  of  her 
serious  business.  Without  pausing,  she  continued  on 
her  way  to  Charles,  and  knelt,  bending  her  body  al- 
most to  the  ground. 

"  God  give  you  good  life,  fair  dauphin." 

"  I  am  not  the  king,"  said  Charles,  his  smiling  lips 
continuing  the  game. 

"  You  are  not  yet  the  king,  but  you  shall  be.  My 
name  is  Jeanne  the  maid.  The  King  of  heaven  sends 
you  word  by  me  that  you  shall  be  anointed  and 
crowned  in  the  city  of  Kheims,  and  it  is  his  pleasure 
that  our  enemies  the  English  depart  to  their  own 
country." 

"  How  am  I  to  know  this  ? "  Feeling  the  beauty  of 
her  voice,  he  looked  into  familiar  eyes  around  for  the 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  I^AKC  85 

answering  smile  which  often  helped  him  to  take  seri- 
ous matters  lightly.  His  queen  and  his  mother-in-law 
had  urged  him  to  seize  any  help,  and  the  city  of  Or- 
leans was  wildly  demanding  this  strange  creature, 
who  affected  him,  not  as  woman  should  affect  man, 
but  as  some  blameless  and  sexless  knight  dropped  out 
of  God  knew  where  for  his  reproach.  It  would  be 
said  in  every  kingdom  of  Christendom  that  Charles  of 
France  was  come  to  a  pretty  pass  when  he  was  obliged 
to  take  up  with  a  peasant  maid  from  the  hills  of  Lor- 
raine to  lead  his  troops  and  fight  his  battles. 

"  My  sign  shall  be  the  raising  of  the  siege  of  Orleans." 

The  dauphin's  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  the  deputies,  and 
all  three  men  agreed  silently  that  she  might  well  be 
used  against  the  English  if  the  people  believed  she 
could  raise  the  siege. 

The  Queen  of  Sicily  whispered  with  awe  to  ladies  in 
waiting :  "  Not  only  did  she  know  the  king  without  ever 
having  seen  him,  but  she  kneels  as  if  brought  up  in  a 
court." 

"And  I  have  a  sign  also  for  you  alone,  gentle 
dauphin,"  said  Jeanne,  "  that  I  may  not  tell  to  any 
other  ear." 

"  Come  aside  and  tell  it  to  mine  alone,  then,"  said 
Charles. 

They  stepped  into  a  window  recess,  and  stood  be- 
tween the  two  splayed  seats,  Charles  with  his  back  to 
the  court.  The  cross  of  stone  which  parted  the  win- 
dow into  four  oblongs  of  starlight  was  behind  Jeanne. 
And  much  farther  behind  her,  in  the  distant  valley  of 
the  Meuse,  was  that  past  life  from  which  she  had  come 
to  these  strange  uses. 


86  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

The  courtiers  talked  among  themselves,  women's 
pointed  hennins  towering  above  men's  heads;  but 
every  face,. even  that  of  the  court  poet  leaning  against 
a  chimney  pillar  and  noiselessly  fingering  his  lute, 
was  turned  toward  the  dauphin  and  the  maid. 

Charles  entered  the  alcove  as  a  man  submits  himself 
to  remedies  unproved  which  he  has  half  a  mind  to  re- 
ject. In  the  middle  ages  sorcery  was  the  unpardon- 
able sin.  The  folly  of  having  to  do  with  a  peasant 
would  be  nothing  compared  with  the  charge  of  helping 
himself  by  witchcraft.  Yet  this  humble  presence  be- 
side him,  in  the  dress  of  a  soldier,  scarcely  conscious 
of  herself,  was  not  like  any  creature  who  had  in  his 
lifetime  been  sent  to  the  stake  accused  of  meddling 
with  devils. 

Their  talk  in  the  window  was  so  brief  that  the 
change  in  the  dauphin  startled  his  court.  He  turned 
about  with  a  radiant  face,  and  led  the  maid  toward 
them  by  the  hand.  Never  in  the  seven  years  of  his 
uneasy  reign— and  those  who  knew  him  longest  said 
never  in  his  life  before — had  he  been  so  jubilant.1 

1  "  One  day,  at  the  period  of  his  greatest  adversity,  the  prince, 
vainly  looking  for  a  remedy  against  so  many  troubles,  entered 
in  the  morning,  alone,  into  his  oratory,  and  there,  without  utter- 
ing a  word  aloud,  made  prayer  to  God  from  the  depths  of  his 
heart  that  if  he  were  the  true  heir,  issue  of  the  house  of  France 
(and  a  doubt  was  possible  with  such  a  queen  as  Isabel  of  Bava- 
ria), and  the  kingdom  ought  justly  to  be  his,  God  would  be 
pleased  to  keep  and  defend  it  for  him ;  if  not,  to  give  him  grace 
to  escape  without  death  or  imprisonment  and  find  safety  in 
Spain  or  Scotland,  where  he  intended  in  the  last  resort  to  seek 
a  refuge.  This  prayer,  known  to  God  alone,  the  maid  recalled 
to  the  mind  of  Charles  VII,  and  thus  is  explained  the  joy 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  I^ARC  87 

"  What  hath  she  told  him  ? "  whispered  a  lady  to  the 
chancellor. 

"  Some  remedy  for  the  rot  of  sheep's  feet,"  laughed 
the  favorite  at  her  ear.  "  Charles  is  a  gentle  king  to 
please.  But  I  will  inquire,  and  bring  you  word  of  the 
wonderful  token." 

"Who  is  that  man  with  his  mouth  awry?"  asked 
Jeanne  of  the  deputies  from  Orleans  in  the  crowd  that 
the  dauphin  brought  about  her. 

"  That  is  the  chancellor  of  France,  La  Tre'mouille." 

"I  would  there  were  more  of  the  royal  blood 
gathered  here,  for  that  would  be  the  better  for 
France." 

Undismayed,  she  reviewed  the  knights  and  nobles, 
and  in  her  mind  estimated  the  value  of  each  one.  In 
an  age  of  hand-to-hand  combat  the  large,  well-boned 
man  promised  best  for  fighting.  Jeanne  was  a  child 
in  expression.  She  could  not  talk  so  that  people 
would  stand  and  listen  to  her  from  morning  till  night, 
as  it  was  said  a  friar  at  Paris  was  then  doing,  but  she 
had  the  sense  of  events.  Insincerity  was  the  life- 
breath  of  this  court,  which  the  Queen  of  Sicily  fre- 
quented only  for  her  daughter's  sake.  Its  intrigues 
and  jealousies  and  secret  histories  could  not  lie  plainly 
open  to  the  maid  from  Domremy ;  but  she  felt  those 
tangles  of  human  interests  and  petty  spites,  which 

which,  as  the  witnesses  say,  he  testified  whilst  none  at  that 
time  knew  the  cause.  Jeanne  by  this  revelation  not  only  caused 
the  king  to  believe  in  her ;  she  caused  him  to  believe  in  himself 
and  his  right  and  title :  'I  tell  thee  on  behalf  of  my  Lord  that 
thou  art  the  true  heir  of  France  and  son  of  the  king.' "— Wallon, 
tome  i.,  p.  32. 


88  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AEC 

make  the  entire  fabric  of  many  lives,  disturbing  her 
large  scheme. 

Because  Charles  showed  that  he  believed  in  her,  his 
ladies  came  near  and  talked  to  her,  looking  less  at  her 
man-at-arms  shoes.  The  chancellor  asked  her  how 
she  fared  across  country,  and  if  she  had  heard  on  her 
journey  the  secret  she  told  the  king.  Alan  Chartier, 
the  court  poet,  carrying  his  lute,  and  with  his  sugar- 
loaf  hat  hanging  at  his  back  by  ribbons,  lounged  at 
her  elbow,  half  insolent  with  the  license  of  the  court, 
half  fascinated  by  a  face  rapt  with  purpose  as  he  had 
never  seen  face  before.  Ashamed,  Jeanne  looked  at 
them  all,  and  wished  they  would  quit  making  witty 
plays  with  words,  and  turn  to  the  matter  of  Or- 
leans; for,  besides  Charles  and  the  deputies,  there 
was  no  man  in  hall  who  willingly  spoke  of  that  be- 
sieged city. 

Jeanne  knew  her  brother  Jacquemine  could  make 
the  family  miserable  by  his  f retf ulness.  In  a  prince's 
household  the  tyranny  of  small  over  great  natures 
was  still  the  strange  human  law.  Her  first  half-hour 
at  court  showed  her  how  an  insignificant  man,  rising 
by  the  power  of  his  arrogance,  could  turn  at  will  the 
fate  of  a  kingdom.  The  courtier  who  had  presented 
La  Tremouille  as  her  king  jested  less  at  her  than  at 
France. 

The  audience  ended,  and  Jeanne  went  back  to  the 
tower  of  Coudray.  Morning  and  noon  and  night  grew 
and  brightened  and  darkened  over  the  white  stones  of 
Chinon,  and  morning  came  again.  She  knelt  in  the 
chapel  of  St.  Martin  for  hours  at  a  time,  while  spring 
mists  approached  from  infinite  depths  of  sky  to 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  I^ARC  89 

dampen  the  earth.  The  dampness  became  bold  lines 
of  rain,  and  threshed  trees,  streaming  down  walls  and 
hissing  against  the  buttressed  heights.  Almost  before 
a  downpour  could  thin,  the  sun  broke  through  and 
printed  a  rainbow  across  the  valley.  The  season  con- 
tinued to  advance,  though  affairs  in  the  kingdom  stood 
still. 

Bertrand  took  shelter  at  the  foot  of  the  outer  stair- 
way, leaning  against  the  open  window  where  he  could 
watch  these  gathering  and  passing  rains,  with  dull 
interest  in  their  frequency.  The  tall  youth  in  page's 
dress  whom  he  had  seen  hanging  about  the  chapel, 
and  disapproved  of  as  a  spy  upon  Jeanne,  entered 
boldly  and  made  for  the  stairway.  Bertrand  took  him 
by  the  collar,  but  allowed  him  to  wrench  himself  loose 
and  stand  back. 

"  What  business  have  you  here,  young  messire  ? " 

"  I  am  sent  to  the  pucelle." 

"  What 's  your  message  ? " 

"  I  will  even  deliver  that  myself." 

"  I  am  her  squire,"  said  Bertrand. 

"  And  I  am  sent  to  be  her  page,"  said  the  other. 

"Who  sent  you?" 

"The  king." 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Louis  de  Coutes." i 

Bertrand  de  Poulengy  and  Louis]  de  Coutes  eyed 
eacli  other  without  favor. 

"  I  am  bid  to  wait  on  her,"  further  declared  Louis. 

1  Her  page,  Louis  de  Coutes,  not  Louis  de  Conte.  (See 
"  Grand  List,"  or  "  Livre  d'Or  de  Jeanne  d'Arc,"  Bibliotheque 
Natiouale.) 


90  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

"Also,  if  she  hath  aught  to  set  down  in  writing,  I  can 
do  that,  for  I  have  learned  the  clerk's  trade." 

"  You  have  learned  the  clerk's  trade,  have  you  ?  I 
thank  God,  my  trade  is  that  of  arms.  I  carry  neither 
quill  nor  train  of  lady's  petticoat." 

"No  need  to  tell,  messire  squire,  that  you  were  not 
bred  to  courts.  Panniers  on  your  back,  and  wooden 
shoes  on  your  feet— these  are  what  you  have  carried." 

"  Children  are  better  taught  in  my  country,"  retorted 
Bertrand,  flushing  red. 

"  I  am  about  four  years  younger  than  you  are,"  cal- 
culated Louis,  noting  the  squire's  height  and  the  down 
on  his  lip ;  "  but  if  you  will  go  beyond  the  pit  with 
me,  where  no  one  is  likely  to  see  us,  we  will  settle  this 
matter  now." 

"There  is  more  to  you  than  I  thought,"  Bertrand 
admitted.  "I  will  not  strike  a  man  younger  than 
myself.  Go  in  graciously,  and  do  your  errand  with 
the  pucelle.  If  the  dauphin  sends  her  a  page,  it  is 
none  of  her  squire's  business.  But  I  would  we  were 
at  Orleans,  having  some  honest  fighting,  instead  of 
lounging  here  against  walls." 

"You  are  not  like  to  go  to  Orleans  soon.  The 
pucelle  is  to  be  sent  farther  south,  direct  to  Poitiers." 

Bertrand's  solicitude,  as  keen  as  anguish,  appeared 
in  his  face. 

"Why  to  Poitiers?" 

"  Has  not  Poitiers  been  the  capital  of  the  kingdom 
since  the  loss  of  Paris  ?  " 

"  What  has  the  pucelle  to  do  with  that  ?  " 

"  The  king  hath  been  advised  to  send  her  there  to 
be  examined  by  bishops  and  learned  doctors  of  the 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  91 

law.  He  would  have  their  opinion  on  so  rash  a  busi- 
ness as  attempting  to  raise  a  siege  by  means  of  a  maid. 
She  is  to  come  herself  to  the  council-chamber,  and  take 
the  word  from  his  Majesty." 

The  dowager  Queen  of  Sicily,  who  had  been  the  first 
person  to  accept  Jeanne  publicly  in  hall,  was  not  the 
last  in  council  to  see  that  the  dauphin  would  lower 
himself  before  Christendom  if  he  hastened  to  make  use 
of  this  peasant  without  throwing  the  responsibility  on 
the  church.  Queen  Yolande  was  an  energetic  woman 
whose  nervous  hands  did  not  often  lie  quietly  in  her 
lap,  but  fluttered  in  front  of  her  like  butterfly  wings, 
bearing  up  and  carrying  abroad  what  she  volubly  said. 
She  wished  her  daughter,  poor  Marie  of  Anjou,  firmly 
seated  in  the  kingdom  of  France.  And,  benevolent 
though  her  nature  was,  she  wished  disgrace  might 
overtake  La  Tremouille,  who  stood  leaning  against  the 
chimney  in  Charles's  council-chamber,  meditating  on 
his  own  private  intrigues,  and  on  nothing  else.  The 
deputies  from  Orleans  were  urgent  to  have  the  maid 
at  once. 

"  There  are  not  at  this  time  four  pieces  in  the  trea- 
sury, Messire  de  Beaucaire,"  said  Charles  to  one  of 
them. 

"  However,  there  is  always  Jacques  Coaur  of  Bourges 
to  advance  money,"  put  in  Queen  Yolande,  her  fingers 
fluttering  down  to  withdraw  the  robe  from  her  ankle, 
which  she  warmed  at  the  hearth-corner.  Three  fleurs- 
de-lis  on  the  huge  tablet  of  iron  which  lined  the  chim- 
ney-back glowed  red-hot  above  the  burning  wood. 

"  Jacques  Creur  hath  advanced  much  money  already. 
The  honest  goldsmith  may  well  laugh  at  securities 


92  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

offered  by  this  out-at-elbows  court.  We  are  not  shot 
at  by  the  English  here,  Messire  de  Tilloy,  but  we  aro 
jeered  at  by  all  Christendom.  We  would  we  had  ten 
thousand  men  now  on  the  inarch  to  Orleans ;  but  we 
have  not  the  means  to  equip  a  single  man-at-arms. 
And  we  would  the  doctors  in  Poitiers  had  already  ap- 
proved of  this  maid  as  we  do.  But  nothing  is  settled, 
and  the  affairs  of  this  world  cannot  be  hurried." 

"The  peasant's  sign  made  good  speed  with  your 
Majesty,"  La  Tremouille  said.  "  I  would  be  glad  to 
know  that  powerful  sign  myself." 

Charles  smiled  at  his  favorite  without  replying,  and 
one  of  the  deputies  declared :  "  By  St.  Martin !  I  would 
we  had  that  other  sign  she  promised  to  show  before 
Orleans.  Being  sent  in  such  haste,  we  are  loath  to 
go  twenty  leagues  farther  to  Poitiers,  and  wait  the 
slow  deliberations  of  churchmen." 

"  If  we  were  shod  like  you,  Messire  de  Beaucaire," 
said  Charles,  "  we  would  ride  to  Poitiers  with  pleasure- 
But  when  a  king's  shoes  grow  shabby  and  thin,  he 
has  some  shame  about  showing  himself  at  his  capital 
in  them." 

"Has  your  Majesty  pressingly  commanded  new 
footwear  on  account  of  going  to  Poitiers?"  inquired 
the  dowager.  "I  saw  a  man  waiting  in  the  ante- 
chamber as  I  came  in,  having  shoes  in  his  hand." 

"  Let  him  present  himself  here  at  once,  in  Heaven's 
name,"  said  Charles,  lounging  over  an  arm  of  his 
chair,  and  sticking  his  foot  out  lazily.  "Is  this  fit 
gear  for  a  king  to  wear  in  council  ?  France  is  indeed 
down  at  the  heel.  But  we  have  yet  resources  when  a 
man  who  hath  not  been  three  times  paid  since  the 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AEC  93 

treaty  of  Troyes  brings  his  wares,  and  patiently  waits 
to  have  them  tried  on." 

Being  permitted  to  enter,  the  Chinon  shoemaker 
came  to  his  knees  before  his  sovereign  with  such 
slovenly  disregard  of  ceremony  as  would  have  got  him 
a  beating  in  the  court  of  Burgundy.  It  was  the  imper- 
tinence of  a  humble  creditor  toward  a  debtor  of  high 
station.  Royalty  had  sat  so  long  over  the  villagers  of 
Chinon  that  they  regarded  its  luster  a  mere  character- 
istic of  that  region,  like  the  whiteness  of  their  stone. 

The  Orleans  deputies  were  impatient  at  Charles's 
dalliance  over  the  fit  of  a  shoe.  He  examined  it  well, 
and  set  his  foot  down  with  satisfaction. 

"  Now  put  on  the  other,  my  man." 

"Not  without  my  money,  your  Majesty,"  said  the 
shoemaker. 

La  Tremouille  laughed  out  loud  at  the  crestfallen 
look  of  the  sovereign  of  France. 

"  Come,  good  fellow,"  argued  Charles,  "  it  is  like  to 
make  your  fortune  to  be  shoemaker  to  the  king.  Put 
on  my  shoe." 

"  It  hath  come  nearer  to  making  me  a  beggar.  And 
I  hold,  your  Majesty,  that  this  shoe  is  mine  until  it  be 
paid  for." 

"  But  the  king  cannot  be  seen  in  one  new  shoe  and 
one  old  one." 

"  No,  your  Majesty  j  that  would  be  unseemly.  But 
since  you  have  no  new  one  of  your  own,  it  may  well 
be  avoided." 

"You  shall  be  paid,  my  friend.  Go  about  your 
business." 

"Without  doubt  I  shall  be  paid,  your  Majesty ;  for 


94  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

I  intend  to  go  about  my  business  hereafter  only  to  the 
buyer  who  hath  money  to  his  pouch." 

Charles  gave  man  and  shoe  a  kick  which  sent  them 
both  half  across  the  room.  He  thrust  his  foot  into 
his  old  foot-gear,  and  his  easy  laugh  followed  the  de- 
parting craftsman. 

"  That  settles  the  question  of  our  going  to  Poitiers. 
We  must  even  continue  to  wear  our  old  shoes.  But 
we  crave  to  have  them  greased.  In  a  realm  so  im- 
poverished as  this  it  is  asking  much ;  but  we  do  crave 
to  have  our  old  shoes  greased." 

"  The  king  is  a  fop,"  laughed  his  chancellor.  "  He 
would  even  have  his  shoes  greased  when  there  is  scarce 
fat  enough  in  the  chateau  to  grease  the  chops  of  his 
household." 

"Not  four  pieces  left  in  the  treasury,  and  credit 
gone.  A  king  that  hath  no  credit  with  his  shoemaker, 
what  way  can  he  turn  ? " 

Charles  lolled  his  head  against  the  back  of  his  chair, 
finding  compensation  in  parading  his  poverty  before 
the  Orleans  deputies. 

"Bring  in  that  maid  who  declares  we  shall  be 
crowned  at  Rheims,  and  it  is  the  will  of  Grod  the 
English  be  driven  out  of  France.  It  hath  been  our 
will  seven  long  years,  though  that  availed  nothing. 
How  we  are  to  be  crowned  at  Rheims,  across  leagues 
of  hostile  country,  or  even  transported  there  with 
suitable  retinue,  God  he  alone  knoweth." 

"  Did  your  Majesty  hear,"  inquired  Queen  Yolande, 
"  that  the  pucelle  foretold  the  death  of  a  soldier  who 
met  her  at  the  gates,  and  that  very  hour  he  fell  into 
the  river  and  was  drowned  ? " 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  95 

"  We  had  not  heard  it ;  but  let  her  at  once  foretell 
the  death  of  Bedford  and  a  few  of  our  other  English 
friends." 

"The  story  is  quite  true.  She  was  heard  by  the 
beggars  in  St.  George's  Abbey.  '  Dost  thou  jarnedieu,' 
saith  the  maid,  '  when  thou  art  so  near  death  ? '  And 
that  same  hour  he  fell  in  the  river  and  was  drowned." 

"  What  a  waste  of  the  material  needed  at  Orleans ! n 
observed  La  Tremouille.  "I  call  your  maid  a  har- 
binger of  ill.  It  is  only  since  she  entered  Chinon  that 
the  shoemaker  refused  credit  and  soldiers  began  to 
take  to  the  river." 

"  If  she  be  a  harbinger  of  ill,  she  will  take  from  the 
chancellor  of  France  his  occupation,"  gently  responded 
the  queen ;  "  for  things  have  gone  from  bad  to  worse 
ever  since  Messire  la  Tremouille  came  to  dwell  at 
court." 

"  She  is  the  only  person  in  this  realm  that  hath  ever 
brought  a  word  of  good  news  to  Chinon.  Let  us  have 
her  in,  to  speak  comfortably  to  us  and  console  us  for 
the  shoemaker." 

Jeanne  was  already  waiting  in  the  antechamber. 
The  guard  let  her  pass,  and  her  page  threw  open  the 
door.  As  at  her  first  audience,  she  went  directly  to 
the  dauphin,  and  fell  on  her  knees.  He  changed  his 
lounging  attitude,  sitting  erect,  and  bringing  his 
shabby  shoes  together,  unmindful  of  their  shabbiness. 
At  his  left  hand  La  Tremouille  leaned  against  the 
chimney;  at  his  right  knelt  the  maid  who  had  told 
him  the  secret  thought  of  his  own  heart.  Her  young 
face  was  worn  and  exalted  by  much  suspense  and 
prayer.  Her  innocent  mouth  and  clear  hazel  eyes 


06  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

moved  Charles's  sluggish  religious  nature  as  his  con- 
fessor could  not. 

"  Gentle  dauphin,  do  not  hesitate  to  take  the  help 
sent  from  God  by  ine.  My  counsel  have  bid  me  tell 
you  that  no  other  can  do  what  I  am  sent  to  do,  not 
even  the  daughter  of  the  King  of  Scotland.  Go  on 
hardily.  Charlemagne  and  St.  Louis  are  continually 
on  their  knees  for  France.  God  hath  taken  pity  on 
us.  Be  not  dismayed." 

Charles  raised  her  to  stand  beside  him,  and  the 
envoys  from  Orleans  drew  nearer,  feeling  that  attrac- 
tion which  even  her  enemies  owned.  The  room  was 
filled  with  one  presence.  She  was  as  guiltless  of  de- 
siring to  please  men  as  a  statue  on  an  altar,  but  she 
already  transformed  them  by  some  indefinable  power. 

"Jeanne,"  said  the  dauphin,  "we  have  just  told 
these  friends  thou  hast  brought  us  the  only  good  news 
we  have  had  in  years.  "We  have  faith  in  thee ;  but  in 
order  that  others  may  have  the  same  faith  it  is  neces- 
sary to  prove  thee." 

"•Prove  me  before  Orleans." 

"  But  you  ask  for  men-at-arms  and  equipments  to 
raise  the  siege  of  Orleans.  There  are  people  who 
would  say, '  If  she  be  sent  by  God,  what  need  hath  she 
of  men-at-arms  ? ' " 

"The  men-at-arms  will  fight,"  answered  Jeanne, 
"  and  God  will  give  the  victory."  She  laughed.  "  En 
nom  De,  we  must  help  ourselves  if  we  would  be 
helped." 

"  Thou  hast  spoken  truth  there,  pucelle,"  remarked 
Queen  Yolande.  "  Money  and  provisions  and  succors 
are  needed  for  Orleans.  His  Majesty  should  not  ex- 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANJ7E  D'ARC  07 

pect  to  have  miracles  wrought  for  him,  though  I  my- 
self believe  that,  by  the  favor  of  the  saints,  miracles 
are  about  to  be  done." 

"  Jeanne,"  said  Charles,  "  the  most  learned  men  of 
the  kingdom  will  be  called  to  Poitiers.  We  think  it 
wise  to  send  thee  there  to  be  questioned  by  them." 

"What  use  is  there,  gentle  dauphin,  in  setting 
learned  men  on  to  ask  me  questions  ?  I  know  neither 
a  nor  6.  I  am  sent,  and  my  counsel  have  bid  me  go 
on."; 

"Who  are  your  counsel,  Jeanne!" 

"  My  voices." 

"  Do  you  hear  them  continually  ? " 

"  One  voice  stays  with  me ;  another  comes  and  goes, 
and  visits  me  often ;  and  with  the  third  both  delib- 
erate." 

She  stood  reserved,  and  after  her  words  the  room 
was  full  of  silence.  Turning  her  eyes  from  the  royal 
face,  she  could  see  through  a  window  the  sweep  of 
Chinon  valley,  and  she  saw  it  blurred  by  rain  and 
tears.  The  delay  and  languor  and  inquisitiveness 
and  timid  wisdom  which  must  call  a  conclave  of 
bookish  men  to  examine  a  plain  message  from  Heaven 
astonished  her. 

"  En  nom  De,"  said  Jeanne,  shaving  tears  from  her 
cheek  with  her  finger,  and  flinging  them  aside,  "I 
shall  have  tough  work  there,  but  my  Lord  will  help 
me." 


VI 


IVE  weeks  after  Jeanne  had  been  sent  from 
Chinon  to  Poitiers  her  brother  Pierre  and 
a  churchman  were  moving  southwestward 
through  a  wooded  tract,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  resting  that  night  at  Loches.  Their  horses 
were  jaded  by  a  long  day's  march,  and  picked  a  way 
slowly  through  the  light  woods.  Here  the  growth 
was  not  dense,  but  tall-stemmed  and  open.  Long 
before  the  travelers  rode  down  to  the  meadow  through 
which  the  Indre  flowed,  they  had  glimpses  of  it,  a 
low-lying  stream,  full  to  its  pretty  green  edges. 

Pierre  felt  his  blood  stirred  like  sap  by  the  April 
air  blowing  in  his  face.  All  things  are  young  in  April. 
He  scarcely  owned  to  being  worn  by  the  journey, 
though  it  had  been  a  haphazard  one  without  guide. 
Sometimes  they  wandered  leagues  out  of  their  course. 
There  was  not  much  food  to  be  found  through  France, 
and  more  than  once  they  had  slept  in  the  open  air. 
The  Augustine  monk,  whose  hermit  life  had  inured 
him  to  hardships,  bore  these  privations  as  well  as 
Pierre  did.  It  was  not  by  Pierre's  own  desire  that  he 
was  in  such  pious  company.  Jacques  and  Isabel  had 

98 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  99 

put  him  in  charge  of  a  pilgrim  to  Tours.  Where 
Tours  was  they  did  not  know,  except  that  they  had 
heard  it  lay  in  the  Touraine  country,  and  the  holy 
St.  Martin  had  once  been  its  bishop.  If  it  proved  a 
far  cry  from  Tours  to  Chinon  or  Poitiers,  they  felt 
they  could  better  trust  their  youngest  son  to  Heaven 
alone  at  the  end  of  the  journey  than  to  courtiers 
through  all  the  dangers.  For  messengers  from  Poitiers 
came  weeks  before  to  Domremy,  making  inquiries 
about  Jeanne.  The  cure  testified.  Mengette  was 
questioned,  and  women  came  running  from  Greux  to 
speak  a  good  word  for  her.  Even  the  daughter  of 
"Widow  Davide  stood  out  and  praised  her  early  play- 
mate. Jeanne  was  being  examined  at  Poitiers  by  strict 
and  keen  men ;  but  if  they  thought  to  find  her  in  ill 
repute  in  Domremy,  where  she  was  born,  it  was  an 
impossible  thing  to  do.  A  clerk  took  everything 
down  in  writing.  Isabel  and  Jacques  beheld  this 
procedure  without  disapproval;  but  when  Pierre 
would  have  set  out  with  the  returning  company,  they 
were  positive  against  it.  The  season  was  yet  too 
early.  The  envoys  from  Poitiers  might  be  very  grave 
men ;  but  there  was  a  graver,  a  hermit  of  the  Vosges, 
whom  the  cure  knew  to  be  about  returning  to  Tours. 
Pilgrimages  were  very  common  even  at  the  most  un- 
settled times.  Isabel  herself  owed  her  surname  of 
Rome'e  to  a  godfather  who  had  made  a  pilgrimage  to 
Rome.  In  the  Lorraine  country  gray  friars,  or  Fran- 
ciscans, were  more  in  favor,  being  bound  to  the  royal 
cause;  but  a  black  friar,  especially  one  who  had  a 
name  for  sanctity,  was  better  company  for  a  lad  start- 
ing to  war  than  the  best  of  courtiers. 


100  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC 

Pierre  had  carefully  gathered  all  he  could  concern- 
ing the  route  to  be  followed ;  and  it  had  entered  his 
mind,  if  the  friar  gave  consent,  they  might  part  at 
Loches.  For  at  Loehes  one  had  only  to  follow  the 
course  of  the  river  Indre  north  until  it  turned  west- 
ward to  be  led  a  long  way  toward  Tours.  But  Poitiers 
was  to  be  found  in  the  south. 

Moving  as  directly  as  they  could  through  pathless 
woods,  the  friar  jogging  behind  Pierre,  having  the 
hood  of  his  black  capote  drawn  over  his  head,  and  his 
eyes  dropped  to  the  ancient  bed  of  the  forest,  they 
came  where  they  could  see  freely,  without  passing 
sight  through  a  network  of  trees,  the  open  land  and 
river,  and  cliffs  beyond.  A  sweetness  of  leaf-mold 
came  up  with  a  penetrating  quality  like  incense. 

Pierre  knew  nothing  about  Loches  or  the  approach 
to  it,  but  he  turned  and  spoke  over  his  shoulder :  "  If 
we  have  been  directed  right,  Brother  Pasquerel,  that 
must  be  the  donjon  of  Loches,  far  off  yonder  against 
the  sky." 

"  It  is  Loches,"  agreed  Brother  Pasquerel ;  "  but  it 
is  half  a  day's  journey  distant  yet." 

"  We  have  some  hours  before  nightfall.  Let  us  go 
down  into  the  open  fields,  and  find  it  by  the  nearest 
way  the  horses  can  take." 

"  There  may  be  some  danger  in  leaving  the  cover 
of  the  woods  before  we  are  near  Loches,"  suggested 
the  friar ;  but  he  followed  his  companion  in  the  descent. 

"We  are  in  the  dauphin's  country,"  said  Pierre j 
"we  are  not  on  land  overrun  by  the  English." 

Loches's  square  mass  of  donjon,  and  the  round 
points  of  its  chateau  towers,  mounted  higher  in  the 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEG  101 

afternoon  sky.  A  moist  greensward  lay  under  the 
horses'  hoofs  in  the  valley,  and  the  Indre  lapped  its 
edges  as  if  they  were  lips.  Pierre  was  riding  idly, 
wondering  how  far  they  must  ascend  this  right  bank 
to  find  a  bridge  into  Loches,  when  the  friar,  who  was 
measuring  distance  behind,  grasped  his  bridle.  Pierre 
turned,  and  saw  more  than  rising  forest  and  winding 
stream-course.  He  saw  a  troop  of  men  with  glittering 
lances,  still  so  distant  that  they  seemed  cast  in  one 
lump,  with  the  particles  moving,  and  the  lances  mere 
points  of  silver.  But  Pierre  had  seen  men-at-arms 
ride  in  his  own  country.  He  could  not  tell  if  they 
wore  armor.  There  was  no  sheen  playing  over  the 
surface.  During  all  his  adventures  with  Brother  Pas- 
querel  they  had  not  once  encountered  any  of  those 
freebooting  companies  which  tormented  France.  It 
was  not  an  unusual  thing  for  little  companies  of 
French  or  English  to  ride  far,  on  the  chance  of  making 
swift,  perilous  attacks  and  bringing  away  prisoners. 
But  Pierre  could  not  believe  that  any  English  knights 
would  venture  beyond  Orleans  through  the  dauphin's 
country  to  Loches.  He  was  for  stopping  his  horse, 
but  Brother  Pasquerel  dragged  the  bridle  forward. 
Brother  Pasquerel  was  a  black  friar,  the  robe  most  in 
favor  with  Burgundy;  but  those  coming  might  be 
neither  Burgundians  nor  Armagnacs,  though  wearing 
the  badge  of  both. 

"  Ride  for  your  life,  my  son !     They  are  following 
us." 

"  But  who  would  hurt  a  friar,  Brother  Pasquerel  ? " 

"  I  have  not  the  desire  to  know ;  and  neither  have 

you  come  into  France  to  meet  single-handed  such  a 


102  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

company  as  rides  yonder.  "We  should  not  have  left 
the  cover  of  trees  until  nearer  Loches ;  a  monk  and  an 
unarmed  lad— what  can  we  do  but  flee  ?" 

Pierre  had  no  dread  of  the  danger,  and  he  spurred 
ahead,  laughing. 

"  When  I  tell  Jehannette  I  ran  from  the  first  lances 
I  saw,  she  may  flout  my  coming  to  the  wars  as  Jacque- 
mine  does." 

Pierre's  horse  was  the  one  his  father  had  ridden  to 
Vaucouleurs,  large  and  sturdy  for  cart-drawing,  but 
of  little  speed.  The  friar's  was  an  aged  beast  lent  him 
by  the  cure  of  Domremy.  Pilgrims  traveled  afoot. 
Brother  Pasquerel  had  taken  to  horseback  on  Pierre's 
account.  As  they  pounded  along  turf,  both  refugees 
knew  the  pursuit  was  gaining,  and  that  it  would  be 
impossible  to  reach  the  gates  of  Loches.  Warmed  to 
the  race,  Pierre  gauged  the  brimming  Indre.  It  was  a 
narrow  stream ;  of  its  depth  he  knew  nothing. 

"  Draw  up  your  robe,  Brother  Pasquerel,"  he  cried, 
and  dashed  into  the  water.  His  horse  sank  to  its  neck. 
Pierre  knelt  on  his  saddle,  with  his  wooden  shoes  clasp- 
ing the  raised  back,  and  helped  the  floundering  creature 
swim  by  keeping  its  nose  afloat.  It  shot  across,  and 
set  fore  hoofs  on  the  opposite  grassy  brim.  With  a 
struggle  and  a  shake  they  were  out,  and  he  pulled  up 
Brother  Pasquerel's  horse  by  the  bit.  The  Indre  was 
no  barrier,  but  they  were  now  on  the  same  side  as 
Loches.  Pierre  did  not  ask  himself  what  a  maraud- 
ing band  expected  to  strip  from  a  friar,  whose  vow  of 
poverty  and  manual  labor  Avas  proclaimed  by  a  habit 
which  could  be  seen  as  far  as  the  man,  or  from  a  peas- 
ant, whose  ancestry  guaranteed  him  little.  He  looked 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC  103 

again,  and  this  time  could  see  the  arms  of  the  pur- 
suers. They  were  after  any  game,  and  what  yielded 
little  would  be  the  worse  used. 

The  calcareous  ridge  on  which  Loches  was  built  ex- 
tended miles  northward,  being  the  ancient  barrier  of 
the  Indre.  In  places  the  rock  became  as  sheer  as  a 
wall,  with  turf  upon  its  roof,  which  rose  terrace  above 
terrace  to  table-lands ;  or  it  receded  in  tall  coves  where 
caverns  had  been  left  by  fallen  masses.  As  Pierre  and 
Brother  Pasquerel  rushed  by  in  flight,  they  saw  slab 
doors  in  the  rock.  Chimneys  of  stone  protruded,  and 
steps  were  carved  up  the  face  of  the  cliff,  ascending  to 
other  doors  and  windows.  The  front  end  of  a  village 
packed  securely  in  a  mountain  looked  down  on  the 
passing  world.  The  road  here  was  printed  with  sheep- 
tracks.  These  cliff-dwellers  had  flocks  and  hidden 
folds.  Pierre  knew  nothing  about  the  rock-burrowing 
peoples  of  this  southern  province.  He  had  not  a  long 
sight,  like  Jeanne,  to  distinguish  doors  and  windows 
from  the  break  in  the  forest  where  he  had  first  seen 
the  cliff ;  but  the  strangeness  of  such  habitations  did 
not  touch  him,  for  splash  and  yell  in  the  direction  of 
the  Indre  testified  that  the  pursuit  was  nearly  up.  On 
his  right  hand  a  hole  as  large  as  a  church  widened  its 
gloom.  Pierre  took  to  the  cavern  as  he  had  taken  to 
the  river.  Pieces  of  fallen  rock  lay  before  it.  Under 
its  roof  he  leaped  from  his  horse,  and  Brother  Pas- 
querel slipped  from  the  saddle  also.  The  opening  had 
doors.  Pierre  saw  them  folded  back  against  the  rock 
—strong  slabs,  riveted  together  with  bolts  of  iron. 
He  clapped  them  shut,  and  lifting  a  bar  of  oak  which 
made  him  stagger,  set  it  in  sockets  across  both  leaves. 


104  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AKC 

Daylight  came  over  the  top  of  this  gate,  but  it  was 
high  enough  to  form  a  good  defense.  Lance-butts 
soon  pounded  it,  and  horses  trampled  outside.  A 
jargon  of  words  proved  what  mongrel  herd  demanded 
toll  there.  With  oaths  which  made  Brother  Pasquerel 
stop  his  ears  and  Pierre  harken  with  astonishment, 
they  threatened  fire  and  siege,  and  chopped  the  doors 
with  axes.  The  oak  was  like  rock.  Pierre  felt  secure 
enough  to  glance  behind  him.  A  blacker  gallery  pen- 
etrated under  the  hill,  and  the  odor,  so  well  known  to 
him,  was  that  of  a  sheepfold.  Above  were  jagged 
rifts,  and  in  one  place  the  earth  had  parted,  showing 
a  thread  of  sky.  Brother  Pasquerel  sat  down  on  a 
stone,  pushing  the  cowl  off  his  head.  Heat  glowed 
from  his  mild,  dark  face.  Light  above  the  barrier  and 
through  the  upper  chink  sunk  by  grades  of  shadow  to 
gloom  along  the  rock  floor  and  in  hollows  scooped  by 
the  winter's  action.  The  horses  stood  panting  with 
their  heads  down,  steaming  from  their  plunge  in  the 
Indre.  Pierre  stroked  the  cart-horse's  face. 

"  Poor  old  fellow !  If  my  father  ever  hears  of  this 
ride,  he  will  forgive  thee  for  falling  lame  when  Jehan- 
nette  went  away.  But  if  they  break  down  the  doors 
and  leave  me  here,  do  thou  fall  lame  under  them  every 
time  they  bestride  thee." 

The  hard-breathing  creature  snorted,  shaking  froth 
from  its  lips,  and  out  of  the  hill  gallery  came  an  an- 
swering whinny j  the  cavern  was  a  stable  as  well  as  a 
fold.  Though  ordinarily  quick  and  resourceful  on  his 
own  hills,  Pierre  wondered  what  he  should  do  hand  to 
hand  with  these  troopers  if  the  barriers  gave  way. 
A  closed  door  is  a  fearful  thing  when  we  do  not  know 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC  105 

the  dread  that  lurks  behind  it,  but  much  more  fearful 
•when  it  is  strained  and  shaken  by  recognized  foes. 
Neither  he  nor  Brother  Pasquerel  understood  half 
that  was  said  outside ;  for  it  was  the  speech  of  mer- 
cenaries gathered  from  all  parts  of  Europe.  As  in 
Paris  a  butcher  had  led  mobs  and  ruled  the  city,  so 
among  these  roving  bands  the  strongest  and  bloodiest 
man  became  leader,  whatever  his  nationality. 

Breathlessly  watching  the  gates  with  eyes  still 
blinded  by  daylight,  neither  of  the  two  inside  saw 
steps  that  were  hewed  in  the  cavern  at  the  left  of  the 
entrance.  Hearing  a  woman's  voice,  Pierre  turned, 
and  saw  a  door  at  the  top  of  steps ;  and  there  was  a 
maid  about  Jeanne's  age  leaning  out  to  look  at  the  in- 
truders. If  the  sky  had  opened,  or  the  cleft  overhead 
parted  wide,  it  would  not  have  astonished  him  more. 
He  noticed  with  instant  receptiveness  her  high 
pointed  head-gear,  the  like  of  which  was  unknown  in 
his  country,  the  tight-fitting%robe,  and  her  bright  hair 
shining  where  no  sun  glistened  on  it.  Only  the  fair- 
haired  were  considered  beautiful  in  the  middle  ages. 
This  woman  was  as  white  as  any  saint,  and  Pierre 
took  off  his  cap  to  her. 

"  Who  are  you,  and  why  have  you  come  in  here  ? " 
she  demanded ;  and  he  thought  of  Jehannette's  voice, 
though  the  tone  was  different. 

"  We  be  only  Brother  Pasquerel  and  Pierre  d'Arc, 
and  robbers  outside  drove  us  in." 

"Do  you  know  they  are  threatening  our  lives  and 
trying  to  break  the  house  door  down  ? " 

"  No,  demoiselle  j  we  knew  nothing  of  that." 

"  Can't  you  hear  their  threats  ?  " 


106  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

"  The  speech  of  such  people  is  strange  to  me,  de- 
moiselle. I  come  from  the  march  of  Lorraine.  Let 
me  into  the  house,  and  I  will  keep  the  door." 

"Why  don't  you  come  up,  then?"  she  impatiently 
cried.  "  You  brought  this  danger  at  your  heels,  and 
there  is  n't  a  man  to  stand  before  us." 

Pierre  mounted  in  haste,  his  wooden  shoes  bumping, 
and  the  friar  followed.  They  were  close  to  knocking 
their  heads  on  the  top  of  the  room  they  entered,  where 
the  natural  curves  of  rock  stooped  low  like  a  scroll- 
work of  clouds,  but  rose  high  in  gray  sweeps  over  the 
center  of  the  large  place.  The  door  behind  them  was 
instantly  barred  by  a  peasant  woman  with  a  child  on 
one  arm.  It  clung  to  her  neck  in  terror  of  the  sounds 
at  the  front  of  the  house,  and  she  herself  was  wild-eyed. 
Straggling  locks  of  hair  escaped  from  her  cap. 

"  Oh,  messires,"  she  lamented,  "  if  the  good  friar  can 
pardon  me  for  saying  it,  why  did  you  take  hiding  in 
our  sheepfold,  when  a  little  farther  on  is  the  cave  of 
Eochecarbon,  and  his  door  hath  stronger  timbers  than 
ours !  This  comes  of  my  husband  not  shutting  the 
gates  when  he  leads  the  sheep  out.  The  demoiselle 
will  be  misused  or  carried  off  for  ransom.  Besides, 
my  children  are  in  the  field  overhead  with  their  father." 

"Hush,  Marguerite,"  said  the  demoiselle;  "people 
cannot  choose  caves  in  times  like  these.  Joseph  will 
hide  the  children." 

"  He  may  come  to  the  chimney  to  speak  to  me,  and 
the  freebooters  will  drag  him  down." 

She  knelt  on  the  hearth  and  looked  up  the  wide  flue, 
her  usual  tube  of  communication  with  her  husband  at 
his  labors.  The  child  on  her  arm  strangled  with 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  I^ARC  107 

smoke,  and  she  set  it  down,  stretching  her  own  lean 
neck  over  the  coals  to  see  if  there  was  a  face  at  the  top 
of  the  stack.  She  called  the  man's  name,  and,  failing 
to  get  any  reply,  sat  down  on  the  rock  floor  and  leaned 
her  head  against  the  wall. 

Benches  were  piled  against  the  front  door.  It  looked 
as  thick  as  the  gate  of  a  town,  and  was  fastened  by 
double  bars.  Above  it  two  square  holes  were  cut  in 
the  stone  for  air,  and  Pierre  mounted  the  benches  to 
see  what  his  assailants  were  doing.  The  active  de- 
fense fell  on  him,  for  Brother  Pasquerel  knelt  in  a 
corner,  not  permitted  to  do  violence  on  man.  Pierre 
had  come  into  France  weaponless,  excepting  a  sheath- 
knife  at  his  belt.  There  was  not  even  an  ax  on  the 
walls.  In  northern  provinces  when  peasants  were 
attacked  they  took  to  flight,  but  here  they  merely  shut 
themselves  in.  Notwithstanding  the  noise,  he  felt  the 
woman's  terror  was  groundless.  The  boldest  riders  in 
the  kingdom  could  not  break  through  stone,  and  for 
passing  over  oak  they  must  use  something  more  pow- 
erful than  lance-points  and  hatchets.  Free-riders 
could  not  cumber  themselves  with  implements  for  a 
siege. 

Brother  Pasquerel  quieted  the  woman  and  child,  for 
both  shrieked  when  an  arrow,  shot  at  random,  passed 
through  the  opening  near  their  single  defender's  head, 
struck  the  opposite  rock,  and  fell  to  the  floor.  Hidden 
by  inner  darkness,  he  could  see  swarming  about,  or 
sitting  on  horseback  and  holding  bridles  below  the  long 
slope  of  rock  waste,  red-headed  Scots,  thick-limbed 
English,  Burgundian  spearmen,  their  rich  trappings 
tarnished  by  a  freebooting  life,  and  unknown  black- 


108  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

faced  foreigners  wearing  smocks  or  blouses  stripped 
from  peasants,— such  a  company  as  war  and  famine 
and  the  license  of  the  times  drew  readily  together. 

A  horizontal  storm  of  arrows  swept  into  the  sheep- 
fold  or  against  its  oaken  barriers.  Near  the  house 
door  was  an  opening  which  Pierre  took  to  be  a  well, 
full  curbed,  and  with  a  windlass  and  chain.  While 
archers  wasted  a  few  bolts  on  the  place  where  their 
quarry  had  disappeared,  men-at-arms  swarmed  to 
the  well. 

"  They  no  longer  throw  themselves  against  the  door. 
Are  they  in  retreat  ? "  the  demoiselle  inquired. 

"  No,"  answered  Pierre ;  "  they  are  taking  to  the  pit 
of  water.  One  turns  the  windlass.  These  are  mad 
fellows  to  drown  themselves." 

The  demoiselle  cried  out,  and  turned  toward  the 
inner  room. 

"  It  is  not  a  pit  of  water ;  it  is  the  mouth  of  Joseph's 
granary.  They  can  come  through  the  granary  into  the 
fuel-chamber  behind  this  room." 

Pierre  took  no  thought  what  he  should  do,  but  found 
himself  in  the  fuel-chamber  at  the  head  of  a  dismal 
staircase,  and  his  fist  shooting  like  a  battering-ram 
into  the  hairy  face  of  an  ascending  man.  As  the 
body  bumped  down  the  stones  he  gathered  up  a  log  of 
wood  and  clubbed  it  for  a  weapon.  A  knife  showed 
its  livid  blade  in  the  dark,  and  he  sent  down  another 
man.  At  that  moment  a  pointed  battle-ax  struck  him, 
and  he  heaved  the  log-butt  forward  at  his  next  assail- 
ant. The  hatchet  dropped,  and  he  took  it.  How  many 
robbers  were  descending  by  chain  and  windlass  to 
flank  the  house  could  not  be  known.  Pierre  leaned 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC  109 

over  the  steps  with  the  wide-edged  ax  ready,  but  no 
more  came  up. 

It  was  not  because  houses  farther  .along  the  village 
had  sent  succor,  for  every  door  was  barred  by  terrified 
women,  and  laborers  hid  themselves  in  the  fields  over- 
head. The  demoiselle  mounted  the  benches,  and  put 
her  foot  on  a  bar  to  look  out.  For  some  reason  known 
to  their  own  wild  minds,  the  freebooters  were  drawing 
off  and  galloping  on  toward  Loches.  They  might 
catch  some  unwary  citizen  outside  the  walls  and  pluck 
him  before  turning  to  other  fields.  It  was  not  worth 
their  while  to  dig  or  smoke  out  or  take  by  assault 
through  a  cavern  a  friar  and  a  few  peasants.  By 
squads,  riding  wildly,  they  trooped  along  the  grass- 
lined  road,  and  stragglers  ran  to  mount.  She  saw  the 
venturesome  ones  whom  Pierre  had  knocked  down 
drawn  out  of  the  pit  by  the  men  at  the  windlass,  con- 
soling themselves  with  little  sacks  of  grain  which  they 
dragged  after  them.  Bloody  and  limping,  they  also 
took  last  to  horse.  The  sound  of  hoofs  diminished 
and  died  away  along  the  hill  toward  Loches. 

She  dropped  down,  declaring  their  flight.  Pierre 
changed  the  ax  to  his  left  hand,  and  grasped  that 
stinging  place  in  his  shoulder,  which  turned  him  sick. 
He  braced  himself  by  the  side  of  the  door,  and  the 
demoiselle  saw  red  prints  on  the  rock. 

The  cave  shimmered  and  went  to  darkness  before 
his  eyes.  His  first  conscious  sensation  was  maiden 
shame,  because  his  shoulder  was  stripped  naked  before 
the  demoiselle,  and  two  thin  scarlet  lips  from  arm-pit 
to  nipple  poured  their  thin  stream  of  blood.  Some- 
body supported  him  on  a  bench,  and  it  was  the  friar 


110  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

who  leaned  over  him  oiling  and  bandaging.  Soldiers 
wounded  in  battle  had  money  distributed  to  them,  and 
in  one  house  or  another  they  might  seek  surgery  and 
tendance,  paying  each  for  his  own  hospital,  for  there 
were  no  military  hospitals.  Pierre  knew  none  of  the 
customs  of  war.  He  thought  he  smelt  the  flowers  of 
the  lime-tree  in  his  mother's  garden,  and  Jehannette 
was  telling  him  she  saw  a  vision  through  the  pale 
yellow  bunches.  His  ears  hummed.  He  was  glad  to 
lie  down  with  his  head  on  a  cushion  and  some  covering 
over  him. 

A  long  time  afterward  something  touched  his  lips, 
and  he  roused  to  find  it  was  bread  soaked  in  water  and 
wine.  That  was  the  food  Jehannette  liked  best.  The 
demoiselle  sat  on  a  stool  in  front  of  him,  and  picked 
pieces  from  a  cup  to  feed  him.  Such  kindness  brought 
the  blood  into  his  face  as  if  the  fever  had  rushed  from 
his  wound,  and  he  took  the  bites  with  great  humility, 
keeping  his  eyes  cast  down.  Joseph,  the  peasant,  and 
all  the  children  had  come  in  from  the  fields  on  the  roof, 
and  they  gathered  behind  the  demoiselle,  admiring 
everything  she  did.  The  oven-hole  at  the  side  of  the 
chimney  was  open.  Marguerite  held  on  one  hip  the 
loaf  she  had  taken  from  the  oven,  and  on  the  other  the 
baby,  while  she  watched  also. 

The  elegant,  slight  shape  of  the  demoiselle  and  her 
small  hands  were  brought  so  close  to  Pierre's  notice 
that  he  lay  thinking  how  much  clumsier  was  the  make 
of  a  man.  Women  of  his  own  country  had  not  taught 
him  this.  Without  speaking  a  word,  but  like  a 
mother,  she  fed  him,  and  he  accepted  it  as  his  sweet 
nature  accepted  every  good.  He  had  been  born  with- 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  111 

out  anxieties.  When  he  lay  at  night  facing  the  open 
sky  and  thinking  about  his  sister,  it  was  the  expectancy 
of  youth  which  stirred  in  him,  not  the  anticipation  of 
calamity. 

Pierre  dared  scarcely  look  at  the  demoiselle,  but  he 
contrasted  her  in  his  mind  with  the  Widow  Davide's 
Haumette,  who  was  very  broad-featured  and  black- 
eyed,  a  maid  fierce  at  dancing,  flaming  in  her  red 
petticoats,  and  more  reluctant  to  go  to  mass  than 
Pierre  himself.  Haumette  used  to  kiss  him  when  they 
were  growing,  for  she  was  in  love  with  young  man- 
hood. But  before  Pierre  left  home  she  had  gone  to 
Goussaincourt  to  stay  with  her  aunt ;  for  there  were 
stories  in  Domremy  about  a  Burgundian  soldier  whom 
the  Widow  Davide  had  led  out  with  practised  thumb 
and  finger,  and  not  because  of  any  noise  he  made.  In 
Greux  the  villagers  held  to  Burgundy.  Pierre  had 
often  headed  the  boys  of  Domremy  against  the  boys 
of  Greux.  They  fought  on  a  strip  of  land  between  the 
two  villages,  and  Jehannette  cried  over  him  when  he 
went  home  bloody. 

"  Now  I  think  you  had  better  go  to  sleep,"  said  the 
demoiselle,  after  his  last  sop  was  eaten.  Pierre  will- 
ingly shut  his  eyes,  not  to  let  her  or  the  present  mo- 
ment slip  from  him,  but  to  hide  his  weakness,  of  which 
he  felt  ashamed. 

Yet  when  a  cow  lowed  down  the  chimney  and  waked 
him  it  was  late  in  the  night.  The  fire  had  sunk  to  pink 
ashes.  Those  blocks  of  open  night  over  the  door  were 
lost  in  the  cave's  obliteration.  He  could  hear  the  un- 
seen family  snoring.  The  bench  felt  hard,  and  all  the 
springs  of  the  hills  trickled  tantalizingly  in  his  memory 


112  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

while  he  thirsted.  How  sweet  was  the  forest-shaded 
water  at  Bermont!  Did  these  cave-dwelling  people, 
who  turned  a  pit  into  a  granary,  have  a  drop  to  cool 
their  tongues  with,  except  what  flowed  in  the  Indre? 
He  sat  up,  wincing  at  the  angry  beating  of  his  wound, 
and  groped  with  one  foot  for  his  wooden  shoes,  which 
the  friar  had  drawn  off,  intending  to  unbar  the  door 
and  go  down  to  the  river.  But  Brother  Pasquerel  rose 
from  the  darkness  and  put  a  jug  of  water  to  his 
mouth.  The  jerking  stream  descended  his  throat  until 
it  was  forcibly  taken  away.  Then  he  began  to  shiver. 
His  nurse  raked  open  the  ashes,  and  brought  wood 
from  the  fuel-room,  and  drew  the  bench  to  the 
hearth. 

They  both  sat  upon  it,  the  old  man  holding  the 
young  one  half  reclining  against  his  shoulder  for  sup- 
port and  heat. 

"  Where  is  the  demoiselle  f "  inquired  Pierre,  in  a 
whisper,  loath  to  have  her  in  that  room  with  so  many 
sleeping  peasants,  yet  alarmed  at  losing  sight  of  her. 

"  The  man  and  his  wife  took  her  on  her  horse  to 
Loches  before  nightfall." 

"  Why  did  you  let  them  put  her  to  such  risks  ? " 

"  She  herself  commanded  it,  and  the  thing  was  very 
safely  done." 

"  Who  is  she,  Brother  Pasquerel  ? " 

"I  know  nothing  of  her,  except  that  she  is  lately 
come  from  Scotland,  and  this  woman  asleep  in  bed 
was  once  her  mother's  servant." 

"  She  is  the  whitest-favored  maid  I  ever  saw,"  said 
Pierre. 

"  White  or  black,  no  woman  hath  favor  of  God  who 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  113 

doth  carry  that  cursed  horn  called  the  hennin  perched 
on  her  head." 

"  Was  that  a  hennin,  Brother  Pasquerel  f " 

"  A  hennin  it  was ;  and  when  I  behold  one  with  my 
own  eyes  I  cannot  marvel  that  a  friar  has  risen  up  to 
preach  against  the  evil  thing  in  Paris." 

Pierre  had  lost  too  much  blood  to  be  enlisted  in  the 
crusade  against  hennins.  In  the  flickering  room  be- 
hind the  friar  and  him  the  peasant's  entire  family 
were  stretched  in  one  bed,  which  extended  a  dozen 
feet  beside  the  wall.  There  were  green  mineral  stains 
up  the  throat  of  the  chimney,  which  tongues  of  flame 
showed  forth.  Wind  rumbled  overhead.  This  was  a 
strange  shelter,  yet  Pierre  felt  better  housed  than  he 
had  been  since  leaving  Domremy.  He  knew,  what- 
ever lay  before  him,  he  would  be  homesick  for  the 
cave  in  time  to  come.  He  did  not  want  to  leave  it, 
and  said  to  himself  it  must  have  been  the  fight  that  so 
bound  him ;  for  he  did  love  that  strip  of  land  between 
Greux  and  Domremy  on  account  of  the  honest  giving 
and  taking  of  blows  there.  "I  have  got  my  first 
wound  in  this  house,"  reflected  Pierre. 

"Have  you  seen  the  horses?"  he  inquired  reluc- 
tantly. 

"Yes,  and  they  are  well  fed  and  stabled.  These 
people  have  a  little  grain  to  sell.  The  valley  of  the 
Indre  is  not  a  desert  like  the  Solange." 

"  It  will  be  best  for  you  to  leave  me  here  and  push 
up  the  valley  of  the  Indre  toward  Tours,"  suggested 
Pierre.  "As  for  me,  I  must  keep  my  face  set  direct 
toward  Jehannette.  I  cannot  carry  this  wound  out 
of  my  way." 


114  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AKC 

"  Neither  will  I  leave  you,  nor  will  you  leave  me," 
overruled  Brother  Pasquerel.  "  Since  it  seems  best  to 
push  on  your  way,  we  will  go  together.  Can  you  ride 
to-morrow  1 n 

"  As  well  to-morrow  as  next  day." 

"  But  you  are  weak  from  the  blood-letting,  and  the 
wound  will  be  sore." 

"  A  wound  that  hath  cut  through  no  bones  will  soon 
heal;  and  my  mother  says  miracles  are  wrought  on 
Jehannette's  flesh  and  mine :  no  sore  stays." 

"We  will,  then,  make  what  speed  we  can  toward 
Chinon,"  said  the  friar;  "and  shorten  the  way  by 
putting  these  hills  behind  our  backs  without  going 
into  Loches." 

It  was  easy  to  find  a  path  through  the  ridge  where 
the  land  dipped  low,  but  nothing  could  shorten  the 
day's  journey  for  Pierre.  They  started  at  daybreak, 
with  a  sack  of  bread  and  a  bottle  of  wine  behind  the 
saddle  of  each.  Pierre's  face  was  leaden  in  color.  At 
noon  the  friar  dressed  his  wound  in  fresh  oil  and 
bands  of  serge.  The  rough  cloth  hurt  him.  He  was 
glad  the  air  blew  cool,  for  the  hot  blood  bit  his  shoul- 
der all  day,  and  oftener  than  they  found  springs  he 
found  a  mighty  thirst  to  quench. 

Man  is  such  a  little  creature  creeping  so  near  the 
ground  in  the  largeness  of  hills  and  woods  and  valleys, 
and  his  vision  diminishes  so  soon  to  the  vanishing- 
point,  no  wonder  he  loses  his  way.  But  the  friar 
steered  their  course  as  nearly  westward  as  he  could  by 
such  landmarks  as  he  had  gathered  from  the  un  traveled 
cave-dwellers.  Clouds  came  up  behind  the  ground. 
The  sky  seemed  to  be  driving  and  hurrying  overhead, 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  115 

marshaling  its  vapors  out  of  space,  and  sifting  them 
from  shape  to  shape  to  hurl  along  a  low  level ;  yet  if 
one  did  not  look  up,  it  was  nothing  but  the  ordinary 
shadow  of  cloudy  weather.  Late  in  the  afternoon  a 
yellow  storm  appeared  in  the  west,  sulphurous  and 
windy.  It  threatened  much,  but  at  first  the  rain  which 
met  the  travelers  was  a  fine  mist  in  the  face,  so  imper- 
ceptible that  neither  said,  "  It  rains."  Then  long  cur- 
tains hanging  far  down  the  sky  and  pendulous  at  the 
horizon  swept  upon  them,  beating  fiercely.  Water  ran 
down  their  bodies  and  dripped  from  their  stirrups. 
Pierre  felt  his  wound  washed  through  jacket  and 
body-garment  and  bandages.  When  the  two  were 
wettest  the  sun  broke  out,  drenching  the  open  land 
with  prismatic  radiance,  and  triple  rainbows  arched 
behind  them.  Their  direct  route  had  taken  them  past 
few  inhabited  spots,  and  these  were  remote  to  right 
or  left.  Brother  Pasquerel  began  to  turn  his  cowled 
face  anxiously  toward  Pierre,  for  whom  he  desired 
night  shelter.  Wet  grass  and  swarming  vapors,  and 
the  head  on  the  saddle  under  some  bush,  would  be 
bad  lodging  for  a  wounded  man. 

The  sun  went  down,  shining  through  a  single  tree, 
and  seeming  to  cut  it  in  two  with  fire.  They  rode  on, 
making  haste  over  unbroken  land.  Though  spontane- 
ous growths  were  rank  all  about  their  horses'  feet,  the 
soil  was  so  white  that  it  showed  pallid  in  far-stretching 
distances,  and  kept  daylight  lingering  upon  it  as 
marble  might  have  done. 

In  front  of  the  riders  appeared  a  figure  with  hands 
and  face  like  an  old  peasant,  almost  covered  by  the 
pannier  heaped  high  with  lucerne  which  he  carried  on 


116  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AEC 

his  back.  He  stood  still.  The  fodder  revealed  a 
tender  greenness  through  the  dusk. 

"  "We  will  ask  that  old  man  for  lodging,"  suggested 
the  friar. 

"But  he  carries  a  miraculous  load,"  said  Pierre; 
"  there  is  no  such  green  food  for  cattle  at  this  time  of 
the  year." 

He  changed  before  them,  as  they  rode  closer,  into  a 
dwarfed  tree,  strangely  marked  on  the  stem,  its 
bunched  top  of  switches  thick  set  with  tender  leaves. 
But  behind  this  poor  apparition  and  beyond  a  fringe 
of  trees,  they  saw  for  the  first  time  something  like  a 
needle-point  against  the  sky,  and  guessed  it  to  be  the 
spire  of  a  church.  Wherever  there  were  churches 
there  were  men ;  or  if  this  proved  to  be  a  broken-down 
sanctuary,— and  there  were  many  such  in  the  kingdom, 
—the  travelers  might  find  some  gable  or  crypt  still  in 
condition  to  give  shelter. 

Pierre  felt  indifferent  to  the  landscape.  He  sickened 
with  a  growing  faiutness,  and  one  spot  of  the  dark 
world  was  the  same  as  another.  He  wanted  to  lie 
down  in  the  wet  sward,  and  the  friar  had  prevented  it 
an  indefinite  time  when  they  stopped  close  by  a  but- 
tressed wall.  Pierre  braced  himself  with  one  hand  on 
the  moss  of  a  down-sloping  window-sill.  It  was  a 
shame  to  leave  a  friar  to  tie  the  horses ;  but  when  he 
had  slid  to  the  ground  Brother  Pasquerel  helped  him 
past  buttresses  and  around  a  corner.  A  large  portal 
let  them  directly  into  a  white  church,  of  which  night 
seemed  unable  to  take  complete  possession. 

Pierre  lay  down  by  himself  on  one  of  the  rough, 
movable  benches  near  the  door.  The  massive  stone 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  117 

font  supported  on  a  low  pillar  was  near  his  head,  and 
he  stretched  out  his  right  hand  for  holy  water,  cross- 
ing himself  with  an  exhausted  effort.  A  little  light 
shone  out  of  one  transept,  but  the  body  of  the  church 
was  dim.  He  could  see,  however,  the  arms  of  some 
noble  family  painted  on  the  wall  opposite  him,  and 
also  blots  of  green  damp  high  up  near  the  arches. 
Through  tall,  leaded  windows  the  outside  world  seemed 
to  affect  this  isolated  church.  Pierre  could  imagine 
the  brightness  of  a  sunny  afternoon  here.  Wind 
rolled  in  the  vault  above  with  a  swell  like  the  incoming 
ocean  tide;  but  to  him,  who  had  never  heard  that 
sound,  it  was  the  voice  of  the  woods  over  Domremy. 
If  Jehannette  had  sat  on  the  bench  beside  him,  or 
kneeled  on  the  lower  bench  to  which  it  was  attached 
at  the  foot,  he  could  scarcely  have  felt  her  nearer. 
Perhaps  she  had  rested  in  this  church ;  some  part  of 
her  remained  there.  And  Pierre  noticed  by  shadows 
made  in  the  whiteness  of  the  stones  what  hollows  were 
worn  along  the  center  of  the  floor.  Generations  of 
lads'  feet,  in  wooden  shoes  like  his,  had  stumped  by 
that  path  to  confession  or  prayer.  They  and  their 
sisters  came  here  every  Sunday.  As  his  eyes  grew 
used  to  the  inclosure,  and  he  rested  from  the  pain  of 
motion,  the  cold,  high  altar  at  the  end  of  the  church 
and  the  light  in  the  transept  were  both  forgotten. 
He  saw  a  small  altar  diagonally  opposite  him,  near 
the  angle  of  the  transept,  standing  dragged  out  from 
the  wall  as  if  its  displacement  were  temporary.  On  a 
pedestal  over  the  altar,  so  high  that  it  caught  the  last 
glimmers  of  light  through  stone-framed  glass  above 
the  portal,  was  a  painted  image  as  antique  and  simple 


118  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

as  the  Virgin  at  Bermont,  a  gilded,  round-eyed  St. 
Catherine  holding  a  book,  and  having  the  broken 
wheel  of  her  martyrdom  leaning  against  her.  The 
royal  maid  of  Egypt  wore  a  crown,  and  smiled  in- 
sipidly. But  under  the  figure  was  a  dark  gap  left  by 
the  removal  of  two  stones  from  the  wall.  The  place 
was  about  breast-high  to  Pierre. 

The  unstopped  hole,  left  perhaps  by  workmen  be- 
cause daylight  failed,  proclaimed  that  man  was  a  near 
neighbor  of  this  church.  And  presently  he  heard 
strange  voices  talking  with  the  friar  outside  the  door. 

"  The  houses  from  which  you  come,  are  they  not  the 
village  of  Fierbois  ? "  inquired  the  friar. 

"  That  is  the  village  of  Fierbois,"  was  answered. 

"We  have,  then,  reached  St.  Katherine  de  Fier- 
bois." 

"  This  is  the  church  of  St.  Katherine.  Is  my  brother 
a  pilgrim  to  the  venerable  shrine  ? " 

"  Only  a  passer-by,  for  I  return  from  a  winter's  re- 
treat in  the  mountains  of  the  Vosges.  A  young  man 
with  me  is  lying  wounded  in  the  church;  we  met 
free-riders  near  Loches.  Can  we  have  shelter  with 
you  ? " 

"Assuredly,"  answered  the  other;  then  a  louder 
voice  spoke  up : 

"This  monk  is  of  the  convent  in  Tours.  I  know 
him  by  his  habit,  though  the  brethren  have  little  to 
do  with  men  of  my  craft." 

"  Are  you  from  Tours  ? "  inquired  the  priest,  holding 
the  door  open  for  Brother  Pasquerel  to  enter.  "  We 
have  strange  news  from  Tours." 

"  The  armorer  has  spoken  the  truth ;  I  am  a  brother 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  I^ARC  119 

of  the  convent  of  our  order  there.  What  news  have 
you  from  Tours  ? " 

The  priest  forgot  the  wounded  man  as  he  shut  the 
last  yellowness  of  daylight  out,  and  a  sudden  accession 
of  night  entered  the  church  with  the  three.  A  rustic 
acolyte  came  from  the  transept  where  the  light  burned, 
and  set  flame  to  the  tips  of  two  candles  on  the  altar 
of  St.  Katherine.  These  white  points  in  a  hollow  of 
gloom  surrounded  by  white  walls  made  visible  a  small 
space  where  peasants  would  kneel  for  evening  prayers, 
and  showed  the  eagerness  of  two  of  the  three  figures 
now  occupying  that  space.  Their  lower  parts  were  in 
a  stratum  of  dimness,  churchmen's  cassocks  and  ar- 
morer's legs  being  lost  beneath  the  starlike  height  of 
the  candles.  The  priest  pointed  to  the  hollow  behind 
the  altar.  His  low  voice  made  echoes  in  remote 
corners. 

"There,  this  day,  a  miraculous  sword  was  found. 
We  are  leaving  the  altar  removed  from  its  place  and 
the  stones  yet  on  the  floor,  that  people  may  see  where 
the  sword  was  embedded.  There  it  has  lain,  tradition 
saith,  since  Charles  Martel  drove  the  heathen  back 
from  Tours." 

"Where  is  it  now?"  inquired  Brother  Pasquerel; 
and  the  waiting  acolyte,  obeying  a  sign  from  the 
priest,  went  into  the  transept,  and  returned  with  a 
slim,  large-handled  blade.  It  lay  upon  cloth  of  gold, 
which  covered  his  hands,  and  the  three  heads  bent 
over  it. 

"  There  be  no  such  swords  as  this  in  the  world  to- 
day," said  the  armorer.  "That  blade  is  no  longer 
forged.  I  wish  I  knew  the  man  who  made  it ;  I  would 


120  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AEC 

give  him  plenty  of  employment.  Mark  you,  here  are 
five  crosses  below  the  handle,  just  as  the  maid  said 
there  would  be." 

"  He  speaks  of  the  maid  who  sent  him  here  to  take 
this  sword  from  the  wall,"  explained  the  priest.  "  It 
has  been  guarded  on  the  altar  of  our  Lady  while  a 
suitable  scabbard  was  made.  When  we  took  it  from 
the  hollow  it  was  crusted  with  rust ;  but  that  fell  away 
as  a  scale,  and  left  it  shining  as  you  see." 

"What  maid  sent  for  it?"  inquired  Brother  Pas- 
querel ;  and  Pierre  listened,  feeling  his  breath  come 
and  go  like  the  swell  and  ebb  up  in  the  arches. 

"She  is  called  Jeanne  the  pucelle,"  answered  the 
armorer.  "  All  Tours  is  astir  about  her,  and  an  army 
is  gathering  to  march  with  her  to  Orleans." 

"  It  is  the  maid  who  passed  St.  Katherine  de  Fier- 
bois  on  her  way  to  the  king,  and  heard  three  masses 
in  this  church,"  answered  the  priest.  "That  is  the 
news  we  have  from  Tours — a  maid  is  to  lead  the  armies 
of  France.  And  she  had  miraculous  knowledge  where 
to  find  the  sword  of  Fierbois;  for  we  might  have 
leveled  the  walls  in  the  search,  but  for  her  exact  mes- 
sage. No  living  person  knew  where  that  sword  was 
buried." 

"  I  had  my  orders  from  the  king  to  make  her  a  com- 
plete suit  of  mail  and  furnish  her  in  all  needful  arms," 
declared  the  armorer;  "but  no  sword  would  do  ex- 
cept this.  'You  will  find  it  in  the  wall,'  saith  she, 
'under  the  feet  of  the  statue  above  the  altar  at  the 
angle  of  the  transept.'  And  I  thought  to  have  my 
journey  for  my  pains,  for  she  hath  a  soft,  innocent 
face.  But,  mark  you,  her  unlettered  tongue  could 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AEC  121 

answer  better  than  the  great  doctors  at  Poitiers  could 
propound.  They  say  it  was  a  fine  sight  to  see  her 
sitting  alone  before  so  many,  and  bearing  their  strait 
examination  with  such  sense  and  patience.  The  doc- 
tors have  sent  abroad  a  letter  to  all  parts  of  France, 
commending  her  employment  by  the  king ;  and  during 
my  whole  life  my  trade  hath  never  been  so  brisk  as 
she  hath  made  it  within  a  week." 

"  Have  you  not  heard  of  this  maid  among  the  hills 
of  the  Vosges  ? "  inquired  the  priest. 

"  Yes ;  I  have  heard  of  her.  We  were  on  her  track 
to  Chinon  or  Poitiers,  not  knowing  she  was  already 
in  Tours.  It  is  her  brother  who  sits  there  wounded 
beside  the  holy-water  font." 


VII 


ERTRAND  DE  POULENGY  grasped  the 
handle  of  a  chain  which  hung  beside  the 
closed  gates  of  the  Augustine  convent  to 
ring  for  admission,  when  one  gate-leaf 
opened,  and  Pierre  d'Arc  came  out.  Made  resplendent 
by  the  dauphin  as  one  of  the  household  of  the  pucelle, 
in  hose  and  tunic  of  new  cloth,  burnished  cuirass, 
with  hat  and  plume,  with  leather  shoes  so  light  that 
his  feet  seemed  winged,  with  hatchet  in  girdle  and 
sword  hung  at  his  side,  Pierre's  handsome  figure  was 
conspicuous  on  the  street.  The  narrow  Rue  des  Halles 
had  received  its  fullness  of  morning  light,  and  every 
round  small  stone  of  the  paving  shone  warm  and  dry. 
There  was  a  bright  grayness  about  Tours  even  in 
cloudy  weather,  but  when  the  sun  shone  out  it  was  a 
dazzling  city  full  of  joyful  stir. 

"  Eh !  I  was  about  to  demand  you  of  the  friars,"  said 
Bertrand ;  "  everything  is  so  forward  that  the  troops 
will  move  to-morrow  instead  of  next  day.  The  pucelle 
is  about  to  ride  out  and  review  them.  The  horses  are  at 
the  door,  and  officers  are  waiting  to  escort  her.  Make 
haste,  sluggard !  You  fare  too  soft  with  the  churchmen. ' 

122 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ABC  123 

"  I  have  some  excuse  in  this  half -healed  cut  that  I 
still  carry ;  but  I  stopped  also  to  confession  this  morn- 
ing," said  Pierre.  "  Since  Brother  Pasquerel  has  been 
appointed  my  sister's  confessor— and  glad  I  am  it  is 
that  good  man  one  can  love  instead  of  some  others  I 
have  seen  in  this  convent— he  has  fixed  his  eyes  on 
me  in  a  way  I  cannot  bear.  It  does  go  against  me  to 
be  righteous,  Bertrand.  I  cannot  stand  up  to  it.  How 
do  you  stand  it  yourself?" 

"  I  ought  to  be  a  friar,"  responded  Bertrand,  with 
irony ;  "  a  monastic  life  would  bring  out  virtues  that 
are  now  hid  in  me." 

Pierre  rested  his  arm  on  his  friend's  shoulder  as  they 
walked.  "  You  are  not  the  man  you  were,  lad ;  your 
cheek  has  thinned  and  your  eye  has  grown  deep. 
Sometimes  I  have  qualms  myself  in  this  strange 
country.  If  it  were  not  for  the  fighting  ahead,  I  could 
wish  we  were  all  children  again,  watching  the  cattle 
hid  in  the  island." 

"It  is  the  new  squire  that  saps  my  cheek.  By  St. 
Martin !  I  am  tired  of  these  multitudes  of  men.  At 
Chinon  we  must  have  a  page— one  of  these  fellows 
with  a  quill  behind  his  ear,  but  quick  with  his  sword 
and  his  cursed  tongue— you  have  seen  the  varlet ;  and 
now  we  have  the  equipage  of  a  noble  added— two 
heralds,  two  servants,  a  steward,  a  confessor,  and  an- 
other squire.  The  heralds,  the  servants,  the  steward, 
and  the  confessor  I  am,  by  prayer  and  fasting,  able  to 
embrace,"  said  Bertrand,  speaking  with  bitter  delibera- 
tion ;  "  but  damn  the  other  squire !  " 

Pierre  turned  his  laughing  gray  eyes  affectionately 
on  his  friend's  bunch  of  light  hair.  Bertrand's  hair 


124  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AEC 

jutted  heavily  forward,  breaking  into  a  curled  mass  at 
the  front.  From  crown  to  nape  he  was  shorter  than 
from  forehead  to  chin.  It  was  the  habit  of  his  hat  to 
creep  backward,  uplifting  its  edge  like  a  halo. 

"Lad,  I  do  love  thee,  and  I  invoke  the  saints  that 
my  sister  may  not  reform  thee  as  well  as  the  troops. 
Concerning  the  following  they  give  her,  she  has  no 
desire  for  it.  The  dauphin  does  it  to  show  her  honor, 
Brother  Pasquerel  tells  me.  It  is  the  customary  suite 
of  a  person  of  dignity  in  arms.  Soldiers  and  merce- 
naries might  hold  her  in  slight  regard  if  she  had  less." 

"  From  a  good  knight  like  De  Metz  of  Novelopont  I 
can  take  commands,"  pursued  Bertrand;  "but  this 
squire,  who  is  put  over  me  because  he  is  older,  he  is 
my  chief  trouble ;  I  have  no  other." 

Pierre  tightened  his  arm  on  Bertrand.  They  were 
not  the  only  pair  moving  linked  in  a  half-embrace. 
Tours  was  alive  with  roaring  fellows,  even  at  that 
morning  hour  inviting  everybody  to  go  where  drinking 
was  good,  for  pure  joy  that  the  troops  were  to  march 
so  soon.  They  walked  in  the  center  of  the  paved 
street,  giving  way  to  companies  of  horsemen,  who 
forced  them  often  to  the  doors  of  overhanging  house- 
fronts.  Shouts  and  the  clink  of  armor  and  the  rattle 
of  bits  filled  the  town.  From  the  direction  of  the 
river- wall  came  that  tinkle  of  hammers  on  metal  which 
told  that  all  the  armorers  of  Tours  were  working  all 
hours  of  the  day  until  late  spring  twilight,  and  the 
credit  of  Charles  of  France  among  their  craft  was  un- 
limited. The  miraculous  maid  was  now  security 
enough  for  her  sovereign.  She  had  all  the  strength 
of  heaven  behind  her.  Men  ran  out  of  their  shops, 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC  125 

and  women  leaned  out  of  their  windows,  to  see  her 
ride  by  in  steel  armor  so  burnished  that  it  was  as  white 
as  light,  her  spirited  horse,  which  had  been  given  her 
by  one  of  the  nobles  that  now  flocked  to  court,  con- 
trolled by  a  skilled  hand.  Every  day  she  practised 
arms  and  tilted  at  quintain,  a  figure  so  balanced  that 
it  must  be  struck  fairly  or  overthrow  the  rider.  And 
there  was  also  money  to  pay  now  for  the  equipment 
of  an  army.  Troops  were  gathering  at  Blois,  the  next 
important  town  between  Tours  and  Orleans.  Yolande 
of  Sicily  had  found  the  open  hand  of  Jacques  Coeur  of 
Bourges  more  generous  than  ever  on  account  of  the 
maid's  fame. 

At  the  western  end  of  the  street  stood  St.  Martin's 
great  church,  flanked  on  one  corner  by  a  square  gray 
pile  called  the  tower  of  Charlemagne.  Its  flying  but- 
tresses framed  segments  of  a  gauzy  sky.  Bertrand 
and  Pierre  threaded  their  way  around  its  side  and  be- 
yond the  western  portal.  Within  sight  was  the  town 
house  of  Jehan  Dupuy,  the  seignior  of  Roche-Saint- 
Quentin,1  whose  wife  had  guardianship  of  the  maid  in 
Tours.  The  seignior  of  Roche-Saint-Quentin  was 
Queen  Yolande's  man  of  affairs.  His  wife  had  been 
the  playmate  and  friend  of  Marie  of  Anjou.  The 
dauphin  thought  of  no  better  place  for  his  approved 
agent  while  the  troops  were  gathering  than  the  house 
of  this  faithful  vassal. 

Horses  and  varlets  waited  about  the  large  portal. 
Before  ascending  the  stairs  to  the  upper  room  where 
Jeanne  received  people  who  came  to  see  her,  Pierre 
had  formed  what  he  wished  to  say  to  his  friend.  He 

1  M.  Henri  Destr6guil,  Tours. 


126  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AKC 

had  a  large  unconsciousness  of  self.  Two  or  three 
days  had  accustomed  him  to  military  dress.  His  good 
will  extended  to  all  the  human  race,  and  the  curious 
stare  of  the  waiting  servants  passed  over  him  without 
his  feeling  it.  He  bent  his  head  closer  to  the  other's 
ear ;  his  dark-lashed  eyes  were  serious. 

"Bertrand,  if  you  had  not  been  with  Jehannette 
when  she  left  Vaucouleurs,  nothing  could  have  kept 
me  from  following  her  directly.  I  did  not  know  the 
other  men;  but  I  knew  you,  and  it  made  my  mind 
quite  easy.  Let  the  dauphin  put  an  army  of  squires, 
pages,  and  servants  about  her;  who  can  ever  be 
trusted  as  you  are?" 

The  shorter  man  looked  up  at  Pierre,  his  face  flush- 
ing almost  to  tears,  and  whitening  instantly  until  the 
skin  looked  drawn  on  his  features. 

"My  spirit  is  breaking,  Pierrelo.  It  grows  worse 
and  worse  with  me.  I  'm  glad  you  Ve  come  to  put 
some  manhood  into  me  again.  When  we  were  in 
Poitiers,  and  people  yet  doubted  her,  and  she  had  to 
sit  and  answer  all  kinds  of  puzzling  questions  put  by 
learned  men,  and  there  was  a  chance  of  her  being 
turned  back  from  the  dauphin's  service,  I  thought  my 
heart  would  break  if  they  refused  her ;  but  now  that 
she  has  been  accepted,  and  everybody  is  crowding 
after  the  pucelle,  I  cannot  endure  that.  Take  me  to 
some  convenient  place,  and  knock  me  on  the  head  with 
your  ax,  Pierrelo.  I  am  a  poor  creature." 

"You  are  the  best  fellow  I  ever  knew,"  declared 
Pierre ;  "  and  when  we  have  something  to  do  besides 
waiting  in  lodgings  for  the  march  upon  Orleans,  it 
will  be  better  with  you." 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AKC  127 

They  entered  with  the  freedom  of  attendants  the 
large  upper  chamber  where  Jeanne  was  busy  with 
officers,  and  the  lady  of  Roche-Saint-Quentin  sat  by 
with  her  embroidery.  Pierre's  figure  fell  into  the  at- 
titude of  waiting.  He  folded  his  arms,  and  watched 
his  sister's  back  and  the  short  hair  flying  above  her 
tunic.  He  had  noticed  that  her  language  was  softened, 
but  there  was  change  in  her  which  life  among  the 
courtly  and  learned  could  not  make  in  a  few  weeks. 
She  was  now  tho  strangely  commissioned  virgin  of 
war,  whose  business  was  larger  than  he  could  yet 
comprehend.  Yet  when  he  had  come  into  Tours, 
sick  and  sore,  beside  Brother  Pasquerel,  and  met  her 
riding  with  the  young  Duke  d'Alenc.on  on  a  prancing 
horse  which  that  nobleman  had  given  her,  shining  in 
her  burnished  armor  through  the  midst  of  a  company 
like  a  pageant,  she  cried  to  her  brother, "  Oh,  Pierrelo ! " 
and  spurred  up  close  to  throw  her  mailed  arms  around 
his  neck.  She  was  his  same  dear  maid,  but  with  every 
motion  of  this  new  spirit  showing  in  her  face.  Pierre 
had  no  traffic  with  heaven  himself,  except  in  the 
heartiest  and  most  animal  way,  and  he  felt  astounded 
by  the  solid  results  of  visions.  For  he  had  expected, 
at  the  best,  little  more  than  permission  to  march  on 
foot  with  his  sister  to  Orleans,  and  indulgence  to  break 
the  head  of  any  man  who  insulted  a  maid-at-arms ; 
but  he  found  her  the  autocrat  of  an  army,  dictating 
with  the  power  of  the  church  to  old  soldiers. 

One  of  the  two  with  whom  she  conferred  was  a 
courtier,  a  tall,  thin-nosed  man,  who  said  little,  but 
examined  her  with  constant  scrutiny.  He  leaned 
against  the  wall,  holding  his  plumed  cap  at  his  side,  and 


128  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

crossing  his  feet,  with  one  long  shoe  resting  on  its  point. 
It  was  his  friend  who  talked—  a  short  and  bristling  man, 
whose  person  seemed  compressed  lengthwise  to  enor- 
mous strength.  This  was  fitienne  de  Vignolles,  who 
always  spoke  of  himself  as  La  Hire,  and  never  claimed 
his  particular  body  and  soul  with  the  pronoun  I.  The 
two  men  were  inseparable.  In  all  their  experience  of 
war,  it  was  the  first  time  they  had  been  moved  by  the 
thrill  of  a  young  voice  declaring  in  their  ears : 

"  We  must  clear  the  camps  of  sin.  If  we  are  to  be 
terrible  to  the  enemy,  it  must  be  through  religion. 
Can  God  go  before  an  army  that  continually  blas- 
phemes his  name?  When  I  rode  among  the  troops 
yesterday,  and  forbade  their  cursing,  they  said,  'If 
Messire  La  Hire  will  stop  it,  we  will  stop  it  also.' " 

"  The  varlets  felt  safe  in  promising  that,"  remarked 
La  Hire,  winking  aside  at  his  tall  friend.  "  La  Hire 
hath  the  best  name  in  France  for  a  plump  oath  that 
fills  the  mouth  from  jowl  to  jowl  and  tongue  to  roof ; 
and  it  doth  taste  as  sweet  as  meat,  pucelle." 

"  La  Hire  would  burst  if  he  could  not  swear,"  said 
the  tall  knight. 

"  Yea ;  Poton  knows  La  Hire  well.  Reform  Poton 
de  Xantrailles.  He  is  a  mannerly  man,  and  would 
repay  the  labor  it  cost  to  make  him  a  Christian." 

"  I  often  curse  the  bad  habits  I  learn  of  La  Hire," 
said  the  tall  knight. 

" But  he  is  a  bride  to  me,"  declared  La  Hire.  "La 
Hire  would  be  glad  to  curse  for  Poton  and  himself 
both,  and  save  Poton  the  sin." 

"  You  must  not  swear."  Jeanne's  voice  was  silver, 
but  it  went  through  hearers  like  iron. 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC  129 

"  Oh,  pucelle,  do  let  La  Hire  swear !  It  is  impos- 
sible—" the  stout  warrior  threw  his  hands  from  side  to 
side.  "La  Hire  was  born  swearing,  as  other  babes 
were  born  squalling,  and  he  must  swear." 

"You  can  say  'En  nom  De/"  suggested  Jeanne, 
"which  is  the  same  as  a  prayer  in  my  country." 

"  Oh,  if  La  Hire  began  with  the  name  of  God,  he 
would  never  stop  while  there  was  a  saint  left  in  the 
calendar.  Let  him  swear,  pucelle.  He  can  jarnedieu 
an  Englishman  speechless,  though  with  their  poor 
rough  language  the  English  do  swear  as  well  as  they 
can." 

"  No ;  you  shall  not  have  leave  even  to  jarnedieu  in 
the  army  of  God.  If  swear  you  must,  swear  by  this 
rod  I  hold  in  my  hand.  No  harm  can  come  of  swear- 
ing by  a  baton  carried  by  a  maid." 

"  Swear  by  nothing  but  a  stick  when  heaven  is  full 
of  good,  mouth-filling  stuff !  Oh,  pucelle  !  "  groaned 
the  culprit.  "  La  Hire  would  not  lay  a  stick  in  thy  way, 
but  thou  hast  put  one  in  his.  Oh,  by  my  baton !  " 

He  turned  like  a  bull  in  distress  toward  the  two 
young  men,  grinning  in  wrinkles  of  sun-hardened 
flesh;  and  Jeanne  turned  also,  laughing,  but  with  a 
rainbow  laugh  made  partly  of  tears.  The  entreaty 
swimming  in  her  eyes,  and  the  swelling  of  her  inno- 
cent throat,  brought  La  Hire  to  the  baton  as  no  fanatic 
command  could  have  done.  In  his  heart  he  did  revere 
her  as  a  saintly  child.  She  moved  before  the  troops, 
a  mysterious  presence  lent  for  a  purpose.  There  was 
at  that  time  such  brutal  license  in  the  camps  of  Europe 
as  gentler  races  are  now  incapable  of.  "  Men-at-arms," 
says  a  chronicler,  "  resembled  mercenaries  badly  paid 


130  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC 

by  the  king.  Bape,  incendiarism,  assassination,  cost 
them  little ;  blasphemy  cost  them  nothing."  Yet  such 
men  had  their  adorations.  The  habits  of  the  pucelle's 
life  were  talked  of  among  them.  She  would  not  re- 
ceive or  have  speech  with  anybody  after  sunset,  and 
a  woman  always  slept  in  the  same  chamber  with  her. 
The  lady  of  Koche-Saint-Quentin  remained  beside  her, 
except  when  she  rode  out  to  practise  horsemanship  in 
the  sight  of  the  troops. 

Jeanne's  armor  lay  piled  ready  upon  a  table,  where 
the  sun  struck  it,  making  bosses  of  fire,  and  turning 
the  many  diminishing  plates  of  the  fingers  into 
gauntlets  of  sparkles.  She  put  herself  directly  in  the 
hands  of  her  squire  to  be  armed,  but  Bertrand  had 
not  taken  up  a  piece  when  she  remembered  to  summon 
the  men  after  her  through  a  door  at  the  end  of  the 
room.  It  led  into  one  of  the  carved  cabinets  of  that 
period,  a  narrow  place,  with  one  entire  side  of  leaded 
glass,  containing  a  long  bench  or  table.  On  this  was 
stretched  a  banner  of  the  white  linen  then  so  uncom- 
mon in  France  that  garments  of  it  were  considered 
treasures  of  royalty.  On  the  surface  lying  uppermost 
was  painted  a  figure  like  our  Lord's,  seated  on  a  rain- 
bow, with  clouds  underfoot,  holding  the  globe  in  his 
hands.  The  name  "  Jhesus  "  was  emblazoned  in  letters 
of  gold.  Jeanne  lifted  the  banner  in  both  hands  and 
displayed  the  other  side,  where  two  kneeling  angels 
each  offered  the  Virgin  a  lily.  Golden  fleurs-de-lis 
sprinkled  the  white  ground,  and  the  name  "Maria" 
shone  there.  It  was  to  be  supported  half  its  length 
by  a  rod  along  the  top  fitted  into  a  spear. 

"  Here  is  my  standard,"  said  Jeanne ;  "  it  has  been 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  IVAEC  131 

painted  exactly  as  it  was  commanded.  And  the 
daughter  of  Messire  Paure,1  the  painter,  has  helped 
me  with  the  needlework." 

De  Xantrailles  examined  the  work  with  his  mocking 
courtier's  smile,  and  said  to  her : 

"  It  is  a  pity  to  lose  hands  from  the  tapestry  that 
can  set  stitches  like  these." 

"  There  are  enough  women  left  in  France  to  sew  and 
spin,"  answered  Jeanne,  seriously.  "  Though  I  thank 
God  my  mother  taught  me  to  handle  needle  and  dis- 
taff as  well  as  any  maid  in  our  valley." 

La  Hire  took  between  finger  and  thumb  the  sacred 
fringe  edging  the  banner,  which  Bertrand  looked  at 
without  touching;  but  Pierre's  eyes  went  past  it  to  a 
maid  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  room  stitching  a  white 
pennon.  She  was  the  demoiselle  he  had  seen  in  the 
cave  house  at  Loches. 

Pierre  was  not  bold  enough  to  claim  her  notice,  and 
she  sat  without  lifting  a  glance  from  her  needlework, 
small  hairs  above  her  ears  stirring  in  the  air  which 
came  through  an  open  pane.  Hid  like  something 
precious  in  this  inner  room,  she  held  herself  aloof  from 
all  the  men  alike ;  but  when  Jeanne  approached  her, 
the  pair  talked  eagerly  together  in  familiar  tenderness 
that  warmed  Pierre's  imagination.  He  was  able  to 
picture  to  himself  their  hours  of  stitching  and  talking 
in  this  nest  of  carved  wood  and  glass  overlooking  an 
old  garden,  while  the  lady  of  Roche-Saint-Quentin  sat 
guarding  them  in  the  outer  room.  How  a  painter 
who  had  accepted  from  the  dauphin  twenty-five  livres 

1  "  Her  standard  was  executed  after  her  instructions  by  a 
Scotch  painter,  James  Power,  resident  in  Tours."— MAKIUS  SEPT. 


132  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

tournois  for  painting  this  standard  could  be  the  father 
of  a  demoiselle  puzzled  Jeanne's  brother  less  than  it 
would  have  puzzled  a  courtier.  For  Pierre  neither 
poverty  nor  rank  existed.  Enough  to  eat  and  to 
wear,  hills,  valleys,  and  cattle  for  a  possession,  and 
vineyards  as  well,  had  been  the  rule  of  his  life.  There 
was  no  superior  to  bow  to  except  the  cure,  and  one 
bowed  to  the  cure  for  religion's  sake  only.  The  divine 
right  of  kings  was  then  part  of  every  man's  creed,  and 
if  the  dauphin  had  crossed  his  path,  he  would  have 
dropped  to  his  knees  before  that  earthly  deity;  but 
Pierre  knew  his  sovereign  only  by  hearsay. 

"This  is  Pierrelo,"  said  Jeanne,  showing  him  to 
her  friend;  "he  is  almost  cured  of  the  wound  he  got 
in  Loches." 

It  seemed  to  Pierre  like  a  story  of  fairy  work  that 
he  should  meet  this  demoiselle  in  Tours,  and  it  gave 
him  a  sense  of  greater  things  to  come ;  for  towns  even 
in  the  same  kingdom  were  then  as  remote  from  one 
another  as  continents  now  are.  He  thought  about  her 
all  that  day,  and  the  few  words  she  spoke  to  him  as  if 
she  had  forgotten  feeding  him  bread  and  watered 
wine  at  Loches.  The  Scots  were  a  cold  people ;  but 
when  he  took  opportunity  to  ask  his  sister  more  about 
her,  riding  through  the  camp,  he  found  that  the  Scot's 
daughter  was  also  French. 

The  Loire,  the  longest  river  in  France,  was  then 
Charles's  northern  boundary,  and  Tours  is  on  the  south 
bank.  The  troops  were  to  march  along  the  north 
shore  and  join  the  main  army  at  Blois.  They  had 
camped  in  the  vineyard  country,  a  good  league  on 
their  way.  Provisions  and  cattle,  which  Touraine  was 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  IXAEC  133 

sending  for  the  revictualing  of  Orleans,  streamed  all 
day  along  the  road  leading  to  camp ;  for  the  convoy 
was  to  move  next  daybreak. 

Pierre  loved  the  Loire  better  than  any  other  sight 
in  Tours.  It  was  a  stream  of  promise  coming  down 
from  Orleans,  the  city  of  battle.  The  full  volume  of 
spring  rolled  in  its  bed.  Scarcely  a  shallow  was  left 
in  the  wide  expanse,  though  no  river  inclined  more  to 
shy  around  rocks,  or  pay  its  transparent  silver  pieces 
over  shelves  of  gravel.  There  were  meadows  within 
its  ancient  barriers.  An  embankment  along  its 
northern  shore  from  Blois  past  Tours  to  Angers  had 
existed  since  Carlovingian  times,  and  the  mighty  river 
was  further  girdled  in  by  a  range  of  tower-like  cliffs, 
where  house-doors,  seen  from  the  city,  showed  as  dark 
rabbit-holes;  for  in  this  calcareous  rock  people  had 
burrowed  when  the  Romans  entered  Gaul. 

Pierre  galloped  back  from  the  camp  toward  Tours 
about  sunset,  having  been  left  by  the  pucelle  to  bring 
her  a  last  word  from  the  troops  before  the  gates 
closed.  The  Loire  was  then  a  pink-and-yellow  glory 
at  its  western  disappearance.  Shifting  islands  in  the 
channel,  gigantic  compared  with  the  channel  of  the 
Meuse,  looked  warm  in  the  dispersing  glow.  Women 
in  the  cave  houses  yet  appeared  at  their  open  doors, 
and  the  heads  of  peasants  in  the  fields  on  the  cliff-top 
sometimes  showed  against  the  sky.  Nearly  all  the 
convoy  had  reached  its  destination  for  the  night, 
though  a  few  belated  carts  were  yet  to  be  seen,  and 
the  last  straggling  men  were  hastening  on  foot  from 
Tours.  As  cliffs  darkened  and  river  dimmed,  the  cave 
houses  closed,  and  became  by  means  of  their  air-holes 


134  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

a  long  constellation  of  little  stars.  Ahead  of  him, 
Pierre  saw  two  men  seizing  a  woman— a  small  crea- 
ture carrying  a  basket  on  her  arm,  and  wearing  a 
peasant's  cloak  and  petticoat  and  shoes,  and  eouvre- 
chef  over  her  head.  She  screamed  when  the  men 
made  their  onset,  but  struggled  against  them  without 
a  word,  a  solitary  creature  between  inhabited  bluffs 
and  lonesome  river.  Pierre  spurred  at  them  in  such 
rage  that  he  felt  he  should  split  them  to  the  breast- 
bone. Something  about  the  timid  figure  reminded 
him  of  Mengette.  But  they  dropped  her  cloak  and 
took  to  their  heels  in  dismay,  for  men  of  the  camp  al- 
ready began  to  know  him. 

"  It  is  the  brother  of  the  pucelle  ! " 

He  wheeled  to  chase  them,  but  thought  better  of  it, 
and  reined  in  his  horse  and  leaped  off.  The  woman 
had  picked  up  her  cloak.  She  threw  it  over  her 
tumbled  bright  hair  and  head-cover,  shuddering  away 
from  Pierre's  side,  while  he  had  not  a  word  to  say, 
for  the  fading  sky  showed  him  that  she  was  the  de- 
moiselle Power.  At  that  moment  she  was  the  safest 
woman  in  Touraine. 

The  demoiselle  tried  to  laugh,  her  under  lip  still 
quivering.  Pierre  saw  how  young  she  was.  The 
hennin  and  feminine  hardy-coat  had  given  her  dignity 
which  she  lacked  in  peasant  clothes.  These  garments 
brought  her  close  to  him,  as  if  there  had  been  old  ac- 
quaintance. His  passion  for  this  half -foreigner  began 
then,  with  the  Loire  and  the  twinkling  cliffs  and 
evening  sky  as  its  witnesses. 

"  I  am  much  beholden  to  the  brother  of  the  pucelle," 
she  said  when  she  could  command  her  breath. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC  135 

"Let  me  lift  you  to  the  saddle,"  Pierre  urged; 
"  there  be  other  varlets  on  the  road  drunker  than  the 
last." 

"  No ;  they  will  note  me  more  on  the  saddle  than  on 
the  ground." 

"But  I  will  walk  beside  the  horse's  head,  demoi- 
selle." 

"  In  that  case  they  will  pelt  me  with  words  worse 
than  stones." 

"  En  nom  De,  demoiselle,  what  shall  I  do  ? " 

"  The  road  was  never  so  bad  before,  and  I  was  never 
so  late.  If  you  can  come  with  me  to  St.  Martin's  well, 
and  then  let  me  walk  near  the  horse  while  you  ride 
back  to  Tours,  I  shall  be  safe." 

"  Let  you  walk  while  I  ride  ?    I  cannot." 

"  Then  I  shall  have  to  beg  some  woman  in  one  of 
these  cave  houses  to  take  me  in  until  morning,  as  I 
had  already  thought  of  doing,  for  the  gates  of  Tours 
will  be  closed ;  but  to-morrow  I  may  meet  other  varlets 
on  the  road,  and  you  will  be  gone  with  the  troops." 

Pierre  felt  the  fact  shock  through  him— he  would  be 
gone  with  the  troops. 

"  I  will  do  your  bidding,  demoiselle." 

"  Then  let  us  make  haste  to  St.  Martin's  fountain." 

The  necessity  of  human  company  kept  her  not  far 
before  him  as  they  turned  their  backs  on  fields  and 
banks  of  sand  which  made  the  ancient  beach  of  the 
Loire.  Down  a  lane  burrowing  along  the  cliff-side, 
with  trees  and  rocks  betwixt  it  and  the  highway,  Pierre 
and  his  horse  followed  the  demoiselle.  She  came  to 
an  oblong  of  darkness  in  the  mountain  base,  which 
could  be  entered  by  descending  many  rude  steps. 


136  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

Pierre  tied  his  horse,  and  descended  the  steps  with 
her.  She  took  out  a  key  and  unlocked  a  gate  at  the 
bottom.  There  was  a  cold  pavement  of  rock  under 
their  feet. 

When  she  had  unlocked  the  gate,  some  perception 
of  her  own  unusual  conduct  made  her  turn  upon  him. 

"  Do  not  enter  here  with  me." 

"  I  thought  you  wished  me  to  enter  with  you,  demoi- 
selle." 

Bareheaded,  Pierre  ascended  the  steps  to  wait ;  but 
she  called  him,  a  child's  fear  of  the  dark  in  her  voice. 

"  I  cannot  go  in  there  with  you,  and  it  is  so  dreadful 
to  go  into  the  dark  alone." 

"  Let  me  go  in  for  you,  while  you  remain  outside." 

"  No ;  you  do  not  know  the  place,  and  you  would 
walk  headlong  into  the  well.  It  is  sheer  rock,  and 
though  the  pebbled  bottom  be  white  as  milk  and  the 
water  like  crystal,  it  would  close  in  darkness  over  your 
head." 

"  Then  it  is  no  safe  place  for  a  young  maid  to  ven- 
ture after  nightfall." 

"  This  is  the  first  time  I  have  so  ventured.  I  have 
been  all  the  afternoon  hiding  from  noisy  villains  along 
the  road  from  Tours.  The  woman  who  keeps  the  key 
of  this  gate,  and  opens  to  pilgrims,  had  gone  up  to 
labor  in  the  fields  over  the  houses,  and  I  was  obliged 
to  follow  her." 

"  Why  did  she  not  come  with  you  ? " 

"  I  do  not  pay  her.  She  is  kind  to  let  me  have  the 
key,  and  risk  its  lying  under  a  stone  after  I  have  again 
locked  the  gate." 

The  demoiselle  took  her  basket  from  her  arm  and 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  137 

gave  it  to  Pierre  to  hold.  He  had  not  meddled  with 
it  before,  and  he  hardly  allowed  himself  to  see  what 
it  contained.  She  took  out  four  wine-flasks,  all  fas- 
tened by  their  necks  to  a  long  loop  of  cord,  and  bade 
him  set  the  pannier  on  a  step.  Above  them  in  the 
zenith  was  yellow  twilight,  deepening  its  shadows  to 
the  dusk  rocks  about  them.  Her  eyes,  he  saw,  being 
near  them,  were  black ;  her  skin  had  a  white  pallor  as 
she  faced  him. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  to  govern  myself ;  my  mother 
is  dead.  On  one  side  is  my  mother's  noble  family, 
who  are  not  dear  to  me ;  on  the  other  side  is  my  father, 
who  loves  me.  When  we  were  in  Scotland  we  lived 
simply  like  peasants,  but  when  we  come  back  to  France 
everything  I  did  there  seems  wrong.  It  is  very  puz- 
zling. Did  you  ever  try  to  obey  two  laws  of  con- 
duct?" 

Pierre  shook  his  head.  "  One  law  of  conduct  hath 
been  more  than  I  could  master,  demoiselle." 

"  Yet  I  think,"  she  reflected,  "  that  my  father  and 
my  grandmother  and  aunt  De  Beuil  would  agree  in 
this  matter,  that  the  pucelle's  brother  might  lay  hold 
on  my  hand  to  keep  me  from  falling  into  the  holy 
well  of  St.  Martin." 

"  They  would  certainly  be  agreed,"  affirmed  Pierre. 

She  relaxed,  and  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"We  must  therefore  enter  the  cavern  together. 
Please  hold  my  hand." 

In  that  primal  blank  of  darkness  safety  became  the 
first  human  instinct.  She  slid  her  feet  obliquely  for- 
ward, holding  his  fingers  with  her  left  hand.  Pierre 
had  taken  off  his  mailed  glove.  He  felt  with  joy  her 


138  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

reliant  clutch  as  the  small  nails  set  themselves  into  his 
flesh.  The  demoiselle  paused. 

"  I  am  glad  you  came  in  here  with  me,"  she  breathed, 
and  her  low  voice  woke  sounds  in  the  blackness. 
"  Pilgrims  have  walked  on  this  cold  stone  barefoot  to 
holy  St.  Martin's  well ;  but  even  at  midday,  when  the 
place  is  only  a  chamber  of  gloom,  I  dread  it.  The 
peasants  say  there  are  seven  martyrs,  who  all  perished 
in  one  day,  lying  far  back  in  this  cave.  They  call  that 
portion  the  Grotto  of  Seven  Sleepers.  But  I  am  afraid 
of  hearing  bones  rattle." 

She  recoiled,  and  Pierre  steadied  her  with  both 
hands. 

"I  was  standing  on  the  brink." 

"Let  me  draw  the  water,"  he  urged;  "I  see  the 
fountain." 

He  was  answered  by  the  splash  of  the  bottles,  which 
she  had  already  lowered.  The  jerking  gurgle  of  their 
drinking  necks  could  be  heard  until  they  sank,  and  all 
the  time  the  cavern  was  dawning  to  sight,  from  its  sky 
of  rock  to  the  mouth  of  the  fountain  beside  the  left 
wall.  Beyond  there  was  nothing  but  black  negation, 
a  huge  place  choked  as  with  thick  substance  of  night. 

"They  are  full,"  said  the  demoiselle,  bringing  her 
dripping  bottles  to  hand.  "Will  you  taste  of  St. 
Martin's  well?" 

"  I  will  drink  after  you." 

She  touched  a  bottle  to  her  lips,  and  gave  it  to  him. 
"Make  haste!  It  is  almost  night,  and  the  gates  of 
Tours  will  be  closed;  but  you  will  be  blessed  for 
making  this  pilgrimage  and  drinking  in  the  cave." 

"  I  am  blessed  already,"  said  Pierre.     "  In  my  whole 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  139 

life  I  shall  never  again  drink  such  water.  If  we  came 
here  every  day  it  might  make  a  good  Christian  of  me." 

She  stopped  the  bottles,  and  put  them  in  her  pannier, 
and  locked  the  gate,  hiding  the  key  under  a  stone  by 
the  top  step.  Pierre  was  for  carrying  the  pannier, 
but  she  commanded  him; 

"Mount,  and  leave  the  pannier  to  me.  It  is  my 
safeguard.  Ride  a  few  steps  behind  me.  I  shall  be 
safe  if  you  ride  near  me  through  the  city  gates.  They 
will  be  closed,  and  I  may  have  trouble  there." 

"  It  is  a  long  walk." 

"The  journey  is  nothing  to  me.  I  come  twice  a 
week,  because  my  father  is  not  able  to  make  the  pil- 
grimage, and  he  requires  the  water  for  a  malady  of 
the  stomach." 

"Does  he  send  you  thus?" 

"  He  does  not  send  me  at  all.  He  thinks  I  pay  one 
of  these  peasants  to  carry  it  to  him ;  but  we  are  too 
poor,  and  it  is  too  hard  for  my  father  to  get  money 
for  me  to  give  it  foolishly  to  peasants  when  I  can  come 
here  myself.  I  have  been  here  four  or  five  times,  and 
there  was  never  danger  for  a  woman  in  these  clothes 
until  the  troops  began  to  gather.  My  old  nurse  in 
Loches  gave  my  father  these  shoes  and  petticoat,  and 
I  often  put  them  on  when  he  wished  to  make  pictures 
of  peasants,  and  so  thought  of  wearing  them  to  this 
fountain.  I  never  had  anything  to  wear  in  my  life," 
confided  the  demoiselle,  "  except  what  belonged  to  my 
mother;  and  grandeur  is  not  as  fit  for  me  as  these 
things  of  Marguerite's." 

In  the  wide  dusk  and  among  broken  rocks  her  small 
figure  looked  very  small,  and  her  miniature  face  too 


140  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

fine  for  lowly  carriage  along  the  flinty  road.  Pierre 
felt  that  he  could  not  mount,  but  she  set  off  briskly. 
He  noticed  her  sabots  did  not  squeak  as  they  would 
have  done  under  the  tread  of  a  heavy  peasant.  The 
right  one  flew  off,  and  skated  along  the  indistinct 
track.  He  ran,  and  brought  it  to  her.  The  demoiselle 
stood  on  one  foot  like  a  bird.  She  stepped  into  it  as 
he  placed  it  before  her,  wriggling  a  small  inmate  in  a 
large  house.  "  The  wool  is  out  of  the  toe,  but  do  not 
search  for  it.  I  am  so  late  already  my  father  will  be 
terrified. 

"  Do  not  speak  to. me,"  she  added,  looking  back  from 
the  highway ;  "  if  I  need  you  I  will  call." 

Pierre's  horse  was  one  of  mettle,  such  as  Charles 
had  provided  for  all  the  pucelle's  train.  He  had  sold 
the  cart-horse  in  Tours,  and  had  the  pieces  of  money 
sewed  up  in  a  fragment  of  cloth  in  a  pouch  which 
hung  from  his  belt,  for  there  might  be  a  chance  of 
returning  it  to  his  father.  The  horse  strained  eagerly 
to  dash  forward.  He  held  it  curveting,  while  the 
small  figure  ahead  of  him,  hiding  terror  under  dark- 
ness, flew  along  the  level  way,  or  dipped  into  hollows, 
or  turned  spurs  of  the  hill.  In  all  his  shepherd  life 
he  had  never  driven  to  the  fold  so  sweet  a  lamb.  His 
face  burned  with  the  shame  of  sitting  a  saddle  while 
she  waded  the  night  on  a  peasant's  footing.  The  Loire, 
gathering  all  the  light  that  remained,  lay,  a  steel- 
smooth  sheet,  where  the  sun  would  have  shown  its 
million  variations  of  surface.  In  the  distance  across 
its  channel  twinkled  Tours,  St.  Martin's  great  basilica 
and  towers  standing  up  against  the  void. 

He  did  not  know  she  was  running  back  until  his 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AKC  141 

heart  gave  a  great  plunge  with  the  horse.  She  called 
him  by  the  name  she  had  heard  his  sister  call  him  : 

"  Pierrelo ! " 

Afterward,  in  hand-to-hand  fights,  in  ditches,  while 
scaling  walls,  Pierre  remembered  her  voice  calling  to 
him  through  the  night,  and  it  stirred  him  to  the  ut- 
most. He  was  on  the  ground  and  answering  her 
before  she  reached  him. 

"  There  is  something  in  the  road  that  struggles  and 
groans.  Perhaps  a  man  has  been  wounded,  and  left 
to  die." 

"Stay  here  until  I  go  forward  and  see  what  it 
is." 

She  lingered  close  at  his  elbow.  He  could  hear  the 
terrified  beating  of  a  maid's  pulses.  "  Oh,  if  I  were 
home  with  my  father !  I  am  ashamed,"  she  breathed. 

Pierre  jerked  down  the  rearing  horse.  Any  man 
who  lay  dying  in  the  road  deserved  to  die  for  shocking 
her  with  the  fact  that  she  was  out  of  her  place.  But 
the  object  of  which  the  horse  was  so  afraid  was  noth- 
ing but  a  fallen  ox. 

"  Poor  fellow !  "  said  Pierre ;  "  he  is  doubtless  only 
left  until  his  master  brings  help." 

After  that  they  met  two  or  three  horsemen,  and  so 
entered  the  long  bridge  which  spanned  the  Loire  to 
the  walls  of  Tours.  It  was  covered,  like  many  of  the 
bridges  of  that  period,  and  threatened  them,  an  end- 
less tunnel  of  darkness  starred  by  a  few  torches  burn- 
ing in  sockets  at  long  intervals.  Pierre  put  his  arm 
through  the  bridle,  and  walked  close  behind  the  dem- 
oiselle. When  night  was  heaviest  upon  them  she 
felt  his  grasp  helping  her  with  the  basket,  this  visible 


142  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC 

protection  being  removed  whenever  they  reached  the 
dazzle  of  one  of  the  smoky  torches.  Such  places  were 
the  favorite  haunts  of  cutthroats.  But  the  bridge  was 
fortunately  cleared  by  the  many  passers  who  had 
stirred  its  dust  that  day,  and  sentinels  at  the  city  gates 
let  in  a  belated  peasant  and  the  brother  of  the  pucelle 
without  question. 

Candles  shone  through  leaded  panes,  and  a  moving 
lantern  or  two  could  be  seen,  but  the  city  had  lost  its 
day  brightness. 

"  Good-by,"  said  the  demoiselle,  in  the  open  space  to 
which  the  street  here  expanded ;  "  I  have  but  a  step  to 
go  beyond  St.  Julien's  church."  Pierre,  leading  his 
horse,  still  walked  behind  her. 

Her  swift  sabots  drew  him  in  silence  past  the  sunken 
portal  of  St.  Julien,  and  through  a  street  which  turned 
to  the  left  beyond  it.  Here  houses  seemed  to  huddle 
against  them  as  they  passed,  and  windows  were  barred. 
It  was  dark  and  winding.  They  came  to  a  house-front 
overhanging  the  street,  and  Pierre  could  see  against 
blacker  walls  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  man  thrust 
past  an  open  sash,  listening  to  the  noise  they  made 
upon  the  stones  below. 

"Madeleine?"  the  man  spoke,  his  voice  betraying 
all  he  had  suffered ;  and  the  demoiselle  answered  joy- 
fully, "Yes,  father." 

"  Now  he  has  found  who  carries  the  water  from  St. 
Martin's  well,"  she  said  with  regret.  They  stood  under 
the  overhanging  front,  and  she  felt  in  her  basket  for 
a  key.  Pierre  took  from  his  pouch  the  money  the 
plow-horse  had  brought,  and  as  she  sought  the  lock  he 
hid  it  in  her  pannier. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ABC  143 

"  Your  father  will  never  let  you  go  to  that  fountain 
again,"  said  Pierre,  with  a  breath  of  relief. 

"  No ;  he  will  sit  with  his  hands  in  his  hair,  as  he 
did  when  my  grandmother's  people  were  obliged  to 
journey  back  with  me  from  Loehes.  But  those  who 
will  not  countenance  him  shall  not  have  me." 

"  You  love  your  father." 

"As  I  love  none  other,  except  the  pucelle.  She 
chose  him  to  paint  her  standard.  The  cruel  people  of 
the  cathedral  would  not  accept  his  picture;  but  she 
chose  him  when  she  might  have  had  another  painter. 
For  that  I  love  her." 

The  door  opened  from  within,  and,  dark  as  the  place 
was,  Pierre  could  see  the  womanish,  nervous  hands 
which  seized  a  belated  daughter.  He  turned  with  the 
horse,  and  drew  away  from  touching  more  closely  the 
sacred  family  life  existing  there.  He  mounted  and 
spurred  out  of  the  street,  knowing  that  he  was  for- 
gotten because  her  father's  kiss  was  on  her  cheek. 


VIII 

HE  last  days  of  April  were  chilly  in  the 
Vosges.  Old  ridges  of  snow  yet  lay  along 
the  bleak  hilltops,  though  a  driving  rain 
washed  the  white  roads  and  carried  yel- 
low rivulets  from  the  village  manure-heaps.  When 
Durand  Laxart  came  home  from  the  fields  he  no 
longer  took  pleasure  in  his  house.  His  wife  was  in 
her  fourth  day  of  mourning  for  their  dead  child,  and 
her  face  was  relaxed  and  sodden  with  the  tears  which 
had  flowed  over  it.  His  mother  and  the  neighbors 
and  the  priest  had  been  able  to  quiet  her  first  clamors ; 
but  she  did  not  eat,  and  wept  in  silence  through  the 
nights.  Durand  himself  missed  the  baby,  and  felt 
shorn  of  a  future  by  its  death,  having  little  heart  to 
work  among  his  sheep  or  sow  his  grain,  though  the 
country  had  never  been  so  free  from  fear  of  Burgun- 
dians.  But  fathers  seldom  miss  very  young  children 
as  mothers  miss  them.  With  male  impatience  at  the 
pain  he  could  not  relieve,  he  thought  of  beating  it  out 
of  her  with  a  stick ;  but,  being  a  tender  soul  too  easily 
pulled  about  by  women,  still  postponed  the  task. 
April  rain  stung  the  sashes  and  swept  northward 

144 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AEC  145 

up  the  Meuse.  The  man,  hearing  it,  was  thankful  for 
shelter;  but  the  woman,  dropping  her  face  in  her 
hands,  mourned: 

"  It  doth  beat  on  our  little  Catherine's  grave." 

"  In  God's  name,"  said  Durand,  "  is  not  the  child  in 
paradise  ?  I  have  been  thinking  in  the  fields  that  they 
are  the  happiest  who  have  no  children  in  days  like 
these.  See  the  widow  Davide  at  Domremy;  her 
Haumette  hath  become  a  scandal." 

"  See  my  aunt  Isabel  Romee  at  Domremy,"  retorted 
Aveline,  "  robbed  of  both  her  children.  Nothing  has 
gone  well  with  us  since  you  took  it  on  yourself  to  carry 
Jehannette  to  Vaucouleurs." 

Durand  looked  at  her  without  defense,  for  the  result 
of  his  deed  was  yet  hidden  from  him.  No  word  had 
come  to  Domremy  or  Bury-la-C6te  since  the  envoys 
from  Poitiers  departed.  That  remote  march,  sepa- 
rated from  France  by  so  much  hostile  country,  would 
be  the  last  to  feel  the  movements  of  armies.  Durand 
was  sore  with  his  responsibility. 

"  And  if  Jehannette  raises  sieges,"  taunted  Aveline, 
"  what  profit  will  it  be  to  thee  ? " 

"  We  be  all  profited,  should  the  English  be  driven 
out." 

"  But  who  pays  for  the  horse  she  rode  to  Chinon  ? " 

"  Jacques  hath  paid  for  that." 

"France  is  nothing  to  me,"  wailed  the  bereaved 
woman,  twisting  her  hands,  and  wandering  around  the 
earthen  floor.  "  I  want  the  body  of  my  child,  that  I 
may  feel  it  in  my  arms ;  and  I  will  have  it  this  night," 
she  cried,  "to  hold  on  my  breast  till  morning.  My 
mind  is  made  up.  Get  your  shovel,"  commanded  Ave- 
10 


146  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ABC 

line,  having  no  longer  the  terror  of  man  or  priest  or 
death  before  her  eyes.  "You  must  come  and  take 
Catherine  out  of  the  ground." 

Durand  sat  still  with  his  mouth  open.  It  was  Ave- 
line  who  went  and  brought  the  shovel  from  another 
chamber.  Her  dumpy  figure  startled  him  to  his  feet 
with  a  momentum  which  appalled  him. 

"  But  a  man  is  not  permitted  to  break  open  a  grave 
in  consecrated  ground." 

"  A  woman  is  permitted,  even  by  heathen  people,  to 
have  her  own  child." 

"  Let  me  bring  my  mother  in,"  coaxed  Durand ;  "  she 
will  give  thee  a  posset,  Aveline." 

His  wife,  weeping  distractedly,  put  a  covering  over 
her  head,  and  challenged  him  to  slight  her  appeal.  "  I 
will  with  my  own  hands  tear  the  child  out  of  the 
ground.  Is  it  so  far  to  the  churchyard  ?  It  was  far- 
ther to  Vaucouleurs.  Oh,  it  is  easier  for  a  man  to  rob 
a  mother  than  to  give  her  back  her  child." 

Yielding  again  to  the  unheard-of  demands  made  on 
him  by  the  women  of  his  family,  Durand  followed  her 
out  of  the  door.  Southward,  above  the  village,  where 
the  road  turned  toward  the  backbone  of  the  hill,  there 
was  a  cross  where  passers  might  kneel ;  and  he  vowed 
never  to  pass  it  again  without  a  prayer  if  his  patron 
saint  would  help  him  in  this  strait.  He  hoped  the 
cure,  going  to  see  some  sick  person,  would  meet  them, 
and  inquire  their  errand,  and  forbid  it.  Yet  his  wife's 
passionate  motherhood  so  stirred  him  that  he  rubbed 
moisture  from  his  eyes  with  his  hard  knuckles. 

The  pair  had  only  to  cross  the  street  in  pouring 
rain,  for  the  cover  of  great  horse-chestnut-trees  shel- 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AEC  147 

tered  them  quite  into  the  churchyard.  Houses  in 
Bury-la-C6te  were  built  in  any  place  which  suited  the 
convenience  of  dwellers.  Blank  house-sides  walled 
the  corners  of  this  inclosure,  and  here  weeds  of  the 
previous  summer,  bent  by  manj'-  winds,  lay  half  pros- 
trate. It  was  not  a  dark  night,  for  a  moon  drove 
somewhere  overhead.  When  Durand  turned  to  look 
behind,  he  could  see  the  thatch  and  the  brown-ridged 
tile  of  roofs  showing  sleek  in  the  rain.  The  square- 
towered,  low-built  church  stood  in  the  center  of  its 
allotted  ground.  Aveline  hurried  along  a  stony  walk, 
past  wooden  crosses,  and  the  moss-grown  stone  cross 
of  the  crusader  with  carved  swords  overlapped  on  its 
arms.  Durand  followed  like  a  thief.  He  now  turned 
his  mind  to  hoping  she  would  be  satisfied  by  looking  at 
the  little  bed,  without  robbing  herself  of  the  comfort 
of  praying  there.  It  was  close  to  the  west  wall  of  the 
church,  outlined  with  river  pebbles  set  by  the  mother's 
hand,  and  marked  by  a  small  cross  of  unhewed  branches. 

The  dead  then  menaced  a  peasant's  mind.  They 
walked  about  him  in  darkness,  near  and  familiar 
friends  becoming  silent  and  terrible  visitors ;  and  he 
dreaded  them  as  he  dreaded  spells  cast  by  witchcraft. 
Besides,  Durand  did  not  know  what  punishment  he 
might  bring  upon  himself  by  meddling  with  conse- 
crated ground. 

"Dig,"  commanded  Aveline,  raking  the  pebbles 
away.  She  felt  the  brine  of  her  own  tears,  but  not 
the  rushing  wetness  of  the  night. 

"Attend!"  cautioned  Durand,  listening,  with  his 
foot  on  the  shovel.  The  woman  listened,  and  beat 
her  hands  together  in  a  spasm  of  haste. 


148  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

"It  is  my  child  crying  under  the  ground ! "  She 
pierced  and  scooped  the  earth  with  her  fingers  in  such 
fierce  animal  frenzy  as  set  Durand  to  shoveling  with 
all  his  might. 

"  Attend ! "  he  spoke  again,  his  senses  returning. 
"  The  cry  is  in  the  church." 

Aveline,  her  hands  weighted  with  loam,  unwillingly 
harkened  also,  the  tone  of  authority  in  her  husband's 
voice  startling  her  into  obedience.  The  cry  did  come 
from  the  church.  She  sat  down,  relaxing  her  body 
on  the  wet  ground,  and  rolled  up  her  eyes  at  Durand. 
Stone  walls  and  the  roar  of  falling  rain  muffled  a  very 
young  child's  wail.  Aveline  scrambled  on  her  feet, 
and  ran  to  the  sunken  walk  at  the  front.  The  church 
of  Bury-la-C6te  faced  southward.  Shivering  with 
superstitious  dread,  and  considering  what  she  would 
make  him  do  if  the  door  were  locked,— for  couvre-feu 
had  rung,— Durand  followed  her  a  few  steps.  The 
huge  latch  clanked  and  the  hinges  creaked.  He  held 
his  breath.  Again  the  latch  clanked,  and  Aveline 
passed  him,  running  from  the  church.  He  ran  also, 
leaving  the  shovel  behind,  and  paused  only  at  his  own 
hearth,  abashed  and  puzzled  by  such  a  sight  as  has 
puzzled  many  a  man.  His  wife  sat  with  an  infant  on 
her  knees,  picking  daintily  at  its  wrappings  with  her 
mud-stained  fingers,  plainly  appeased,  and  ready  to 
turn  from  the  earthen  bed  which  held  the  body  of  her 
own  child  to  accept  some  other  woman's  cast-off  bur- 
den. All  her  sagging  muscles  lifted  with  satisfaction, 
and  she  bade  him  look  at  the  creature's  black  eyes. 

"  We  have  our  maid  Catherine  back,"  Aveline  said, 
wagging  her  head  aggressively.  "  Her  good  saint  hath 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  IVAEC  149 

taken  pity  on  me  this  night,  for  I  was  beside  myself 
—that  thou  knowest."  She  lifted  the  child  in  her 
arms,  and  kissed  its  broad  features  with  devouring 
passion. 

"  It  hath  the  look  of  Haumette  Davide,"  pronounced 
Durand,  with  disgust. 

Aveline  faced  him  down.  "  Never  name  Haumette 
Davide  to  me  again.  In  my  lifetime  she  hath  not  set 
foot  in  the  church  of  Bury-la-C6te.  The  child  looks 
like  our  Catherine." 

"  But  it  is  too  young ;  our  Catherine  was  three  mouths 
old ;  and  this,  though  lusty,  is  but  a  new-born  babe." 

"  What  does  a  man  know  of  the  age  of  young  chil- 
dren? They  are  all  lumps  of  wax  alike  to  him.  I 
found  it  close  by  the  holy- water  font.  A  miracle  hath 
been  wrought.  Oh,  you  can  believe  that  blessed  St. 
Catherine  would  show  herself  to  Jehannette,  but  you 
laugh  at  her  taking  pity  and  restoring  a  child  to  a 
poor,  broken-hearted  mother.  Jehannette  herself 
would  not  laugh." 

"  You  do  not  believe  that  this  is  Catherine,  or  that 
any  miracle  hath  been  done,  Aveline  ? " 

She  wavered,  and  cried  out,  "Will  you  take  this 
comfort  from  me  ? " 

And  Durand  put  his  arm  around  her  neck,  and  swore 
to  the  self-deception  also,  before  returning  to  mend 
Catherine's  disturbed  grave.  "  You  shall  keep  it  and 
bring  it  up ;  and  if  any  man  says  it  was  not  laid  in  the 
church  by  saints,  he  shall  feel  the  smack  of  my  fist ; 
though,  on  my  soul,  its  bands  and  wrappings  do  have 
a  look  of  Domremy,  and  the  tongues  of  the  women 
I  cannot  control." 


150  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

There  was,  however,  only  one  Durand  Laxart  in  the 
whole  Meuse  valley.  Bury-la-C6te,  being  informed 
by  Goussaincourt,  timed  the  appearance  of  the  child 
with  the  disappearance  of  Haumette  Davide  from  the 
country.  The  infant's  adoption  might  not  have 
reached  Domremy  until  midsummer  if  the  story  had 
not  been  winged  by  the  miracle ;  but  Goussaincourt 
promptly  passed  it  on  to  Greux,  and  Greux  could  tell 
it  to  Domremy  without  stirring  from  the  door-steps. 

"  Aveline  is  like  a  hen,"  said  Isabel  Romee.  "  Give 
her  anything  to  hover,  and  she  is  satisfied.  They  will 
never  make  me  believe  the  blessed  St.  Catherine,  or 
any  other  saint,  would  stoop  to  handle  Haumette 
Davide's  bastard.  Durand  himself  must  be  running 
daft ;  it  is  no  wonder,  in  times  like  these,  when  mir- 
acles or  mysterious  voices  or  witches  are  in  every  town. 
It  might  be  better  for  my  children  if  more  than  one  of 
them  lay  under  a  cross  in  this  consecrated  earth." 

Isabel  stood  with  her  hand  over  her  eyes  between 
Jeanne's  little  window  and  the  churchyard;  and  far 
southwestward  that  same  hour  of  the  morning  Jeanne 
waited  on  the  south  bank  of  the  Loire,  looking  across 
at  Orleans.  The  army  of  a  few  thousand  men  had 
marched  from  Tours  in  less  than  three  days,  crossing 
the  bridge  at  Blois,  where  gathered  forces  and  provi- 
sions were  united.  It  was  a  religious  procession,  led 
by  chanting  priests.  Jeanne  knew  nothing  of  the 
country,  but  her  plan  had  been  to  enter  Orleans  by 
the  west  gate,  past  the  English  fortifications.  She 
saw  that  the  captains  who  directed  the  march,  and  who 
knew  the  approaches  to  Orleans,  had  purposely 
brought  the  army  to  the  wrong  side  of  the  river. 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D>AKC  151 

Making  a  detour  to  avoid  posts  near  the  bridge,  which 
the  English  occupied  on  the  south  side,  they,  halted 
opposite  a  channel  betwixt  two  islands  in  the  Loire. 
She  would  have  attacked  the  bridge,  but  the  captains 
would  not.  Besides,  arches  next  the  Orleans  shore 
had  been  broken  down  by  the  besieged  themselves. 

The  city  had  drawn  a  wide  belt  of  ruin  around  itself 
outside  the  walls.  Its  faubourgs,  or  suburbs,  which 
would  certainly  have  been  used  by  the  enemy,  had 
been  torn  down  and  burned  by  the  people,  who  took 
refuge  within  the  gates.  West  of  this  desolate  strip 
some  of  the  English  works  could  be  seen ;  but  on  the 
east  side  of  Orleans,  directly  opposite  the  halting 
army,  was  one  large  bastile  threatening  the  convoy. 
Trooping  out  against  this  came  the  citizens  themselves. 
Their  desperate  attack  held  it  on  the  defensive  for 
hours,  while  boats  carried  the  provisions,  the  promised 
maid,  and  two  hundred  men  across  the  river.  It  was 
not  so  easy  to  transport  the  main  body  of  the  troops. 
Concerted  action  under  the  leadership  of  one  mind 
was  not  yet  possible  to  a  fragmentary  army  with 
many  captains.  They  turned  and  marched  back  to 
Blois,  to  cross  the  bridge  there,  and  return  to  Orleans 
on  the  right  bank  of  the  Loire. 

"  En  nom  De ! "  said  Jeanne  to  -the  Bastard  of 
Orleans,  who  ruled  the  city  for  his  kinsman,  long  a 
prisoner  in  England,  as  that  young  noble  met  her  in 
the  boats ;  "  my  counsel  are  safer  and  wiser  than  the 
counsel  of  men  afraid  to  pass  the  English.  I  was 
told  to  go  in  boldly,  and  I  bring  you  the  best  succor 
that  ever  knight,  town,  or  city  had— the  help  of  the 
King  of  heaven." 


152  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

"  However  you  may  enter,  you  are  most  welcome," 
he  answered ;  "  the  provisions  would  be  nothing  with- 
out the  maid";  and  he  brought  her  the  colors  of 
Orleans  to  put  on  over  her  armor— a  huque,  or  blouse, 
of  dark  green,  and  above  this  a  long-sleeved  levite  of 
crimson  Brussels  cloth  lined  with  white  satin,  em- 
broidered with  the  livery  of  Orleans,  the  nettle. 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  the  convoy  being 
safely  received  within  the  walls,  Jeanne  entered  the 
Burgundy  gate  on  the  east  side  of  the  city.  The  Bas- 
tard of  Orleans  rode  at  her  left  hand.  He  was  young, 
with  a  face  not  unlike  his  kinsman  the  dauphin,  but 
warlike  and  full  of  action.  The  English  made  no  at- 
tempt to  cut  off  her  entrance,  a  cautious  policy  of 
saving  themselves  from  sorties  having  controlled  the 
eight  months'  siege. 

To  Bertrand  de  Poulengy  the  pageant  was  like  a 
dream  of  trampling  among  clouds.  Wan  from  hav- 
ing slept  in  her  armor  in  the  fields,  her  bare  head 
showing  sweet  and  maid-like  above  the  rich  levite 
which  hung  over  the  plates  of  her  leg-armor  and 
covered  her  to  the  throat,  Jeanne  rode  through  seas  of 
people.  All  the  bells  of  Orleans  rang,  and  thousands 
of  faces  wept  and  laughed  for  joy ;  thousands  of  voices 
shouted.  The  delivering  maid,  the  mysterious,  Grod- 
sent  maid,  had  come.  Women  and  children  pressed 
close  enough  to  touch  her  stirrup  or  her  mailed  fin- 
gers. Her  eyes  and  voice  caressed  them.  "Be  of 
good  cheer,"  she  said ;  "  God  hath  sent  you  succor." 

Trumpeters  went  before  her,  and  her  little  pennon, 
on  which  was  displayed  a  dove ;  for  her  banner  had 
been  sent  back  in  charge  of  Brother  Pasquerel  with 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  153 

the  army  to  Blois.  Torches  streamed  in  the  night 
wind.  La  Hire  and  De  Xantrailles  rode  behind  her ; 
her  brother  and  her  squires,  her  household  and  the 
two  hundred  lances,  followed.  From  far-off  streets, 
where  crowds  were  hemmed  in,  came  an  impetus  of 
sound  like  the  wind  through  the  oak  woods ,  and  all 
this  mad  enthusiasm  rose  at  sight  of  a  mere  pucelle 
in  armor,  who  had  yet  done  nothing  to  prove  that  she 
was  a  deliverer,  except  make  a  religious  march  with 
troops  her  name  had  helped  to  collect.  Bertrand  could 
see  her  profile  as  she  turned  from  side  to  side.  It 
mothered  her  dear  French,  and  said  without  speech, 
"  These  are  my  children."  The  fact  lifted  him  in  his 
saddle,  that  Jeanne  had  the  kind  of  dominion  which 
is  greater  than  royalty.  She  was  king  of  men's  minds, 
and  the  accident  of  sex  affected  this  power  only  by 
adding  to  it  the  maternal  instinct.  He  felt  strangely 
grown  from  his  old  provincial  life,  and  joined  to  all 
his  race,  marching  with  the  great  of  the  world,  as  he 
rode  in  the  third  rank  behind  her.  But  to  have  no 
personal  rights  in  her  became  infinitely  more  a  loss. 
In  the  cathedral  of  St.  Croix,  where  the  cavalcade,  and 
as  many  of  the  people  as  could  crowd  in,  returned 
thanks,  Bertrand  knelt  with  his  face  in  his  hands ;  and 
forever  afterward  the  odor  of  incense  was  to  him  the 
veritable  breath  of  sacrifice. 

Jeanne  was  taken  across  the  city  to  lodge  in  the 
treasurer's  house  near  the  west  gate. 

Late  in  the  night  Bertrand  woke  to  the  crash  of 
thunder.  A  wild  storm  raged  over  the  town.  The 
treasurer  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans  had  received  all  of 
Jeanne's  retinue  into  his  house,  her  superior  followers 


154  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

being  laid  in  one  room  along  the  width  of  a  huge  bed 
extending  fifteen  feet  beside  the  wall.  Pierre  slept 
deeply,  as  did  also  the  new  squire;  but  Louis  de 
Coutes,  her  page,  rose  up  after  Bertrand,  and  stood 
beside  him  looking  out  of  a  window.  Jeanne  was 
lodged  in  a  secluded  room  on  a  high  ground  floor 
within  the  court,  but  this  general  guest-chamber  over- 
looked the  street.  Sidewalks  almost  too  narrow  for 
the  footing  of  one  person,  and  tiny  paving-stones, 
showed  their  minutest  lines  in  the  passing  glare ;  and 
faces  carved  on  protruding  timber-ends  and  oak  cross- 
pieces  in  the  cemented  house-fronts  opposite  smote 
the  watchers'  eyes,  leaving  an  effect  of  sudden  blind- 
ness. Bertrand  could  see  the  bold  young  features 
beside  him  with  vividness  surpassing  daylight,  for 
lightning  surprises  that  which  hides  itself  from  the 
sun. 

"  I  cannot  sleep,"  said  Louis  de  Coutes ;  "  my  con- 
science troubles  me." 

"No  wonder  it  broke  your  rest,"  responded  the 
squire ;  "  such  a  thing  hath  not  happened  before  in 
your  lifetime." 

"God  wot  it  hath  not.  Messire  de  Poulengy,  I 
have  been  insolent  to  you." 

"And  do  you  get  up  in  the  night  to  repent  it? 
Truly  the  pucelle  hath  reformed  the  troops.  Have  no 
regard  for  my  humors,  Messire  Louis.  I  have  been 
quarrelsome  two  years.  There  will  always  be  people 
who  feel  themselves  badly  used." 

"  But  I  did  use  you  badly,  for  I  wished  myself  to 
be  squire  instead  of  page." 

"  We  are  never  satisfied,"  said  Bertrand,  openly ;  "  I 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D>ARC  155 

am  one  of  the  pucelle's  squires,  but  I  wish  to  be  all 
France  to  her." 

The  lightning  flung  out  its  blinding  scroll,  showing 
Louis  de  Coutes's  eyes  full  of  tears.  The  stirring  of 
their  fellows  on  the  gigantic  bed,  and  the  crash  of  the 
storm,  drove  them  to  speak  nearer  each  other's  faces. 
Bertrand  put  his  hand  on  the  page's  shoulder,  but 
Louis  shook  it  off  with  a  shrug.  "  Messire,  pages  do 
not  fight.  I  am  of  good  family,  and  the  King  and  La 
Tremouille  both  favor  me ;  yet  I  am  nothing  but  a 
page.  The  pucelle  looks  on  me  as  a  boy.  You  can 
fight,  on  the  contrary,  under  her  very  eye." 

"  His  conscience  will  yet  drive  him  to  prayer,"  re- 
marked Bertrand,  gently. 

"I  said  pages  could  not  fight,"  retorted  Louis  de 
Coutes,  laughing ;  "  but  there  is  one  page  who  intends 
to  fight  with  the  pucelle  or  for  her." 

"  You  will  not  fight  me.  I  never  had  a  word  of 
love  from  her  in  my  life.  See  Him  draw  His  sword," 
said  Bertrand,  as  the  lightning  blazed  wide  through 
Orleans,  "  who  fills  the  mind  of  the  pucelle." 

But  outside  the  city  that  vivid  glory  was  considered 
anything  but  the  sword  of  God.  In  barracks  built  of 
saplings  and  "  covered  with  thatch  its  search-light 
passed  over  hundreds  of  blanched  faces  and  fixed  eyes. 
The  soldier,  in  all  ages  a  simple  creature  easily  touched 
in  his  superstitions,  was  in  that  year  of  grace  1429 
the  result  of  much  religious  hysteria.  He  would  joy- 
fully scale  a  wall  with  his  ladder,  and  take  boiling  oil 
or  lead  in  the  face ;  but  the  apprehension  of  unseen 
powers  threw  him  at  once  into  physical  frenzy. 
"  That  cursed  witch,"  was  whispered  in  the  English 


156  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AEC 

camp  from  ear  to  ear,  "hath  stirred  up  this  storm. 
The  French  have  brought  hell  to  their  aid." 

When  morning  dawned  clean  and  fair,  they  saw 
this  creature  of  their  terrors,  little  more  than  a  bow- 
shot away,  ride  boldly  out  of  Porte  Renart,  the  west- 
ern gate,  with  a  rabble  of  citizens  at  her  heels— those 
very  Orleanais  who  had  been  afraid  to  show  a  head 
from  this  part  of  the  city,  where  the  wall  was  lowest. 
The  English  watched  without  drawing  bow  or  training 
bombard  upon  them.  She  rode  entirely  around 
Orleans,  as  if  to  draw  a  line  of  invisible  defense,  with 
a  few  mounted  followers  and  the  trudging  common 
people.  Necks  were  craned  over  the  English  breast- 
works, and  starting  eyes  received  the  impression  of 
her  vigorous  young  presence.  She  was  like  an  ap- 
parition mounted  on  a  white  horse,  her  armor  shining 
as  mirrors  reflect  the  sun.  Her  course  being  north- 
ward, a  crimson  scabbard  was  displayed  at  her  left 
side ;  and  every  man  in  every  boulevard  knew  it  con- 
tained the  awful  sword  of  Fierbois,  the  sword  of  Mar- 
tel,  which  once  drove  back  the  heathen,  the  sword  which 
had  leaped  out  of  a  church  wall  for  the  new  salvation 
of  France.  "  It  is  a  sword  of  the  devil,"  muttered  the 
English ;  "  she  put  it  in  the  church  wall  by  magic." 

And,  having  never  seen  a  woman  in  mail,  they  tried 
to  discern  her  curious  armor,  with  its  swell  of  bust  and 
hip,  and  that  inward  tapering  between,  where  her 
girdle  was  clasped  for  the  support  of  weapons.  In- 
stead of  a  vizored  helmet  she  wore  on  her  head  a  blue 
hat  turned  up  with  gold  lacings,  and  the  soft  woman 
hair,  cut  short,  flew  about  her  ears,  framing  her  face, 
for  she  looked  at  the  English. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC  157 

Orleans  at  that  time  was  almost  a  parallelogram, 
though  the  northwest  corner  formed  an  acute  angle, 
and  the  west  wall  rounded  into  an  outward  curve. 
There  were  five  gates :  two  on  the  north,  Berniere  and 
Parisis ;  one,  Burgundy,  or  St.  Aignan,  on  the  east ; 
St.  Catherine  at  the  entry  of  the  bridge  on  the  south ; 
and,  on  the  west  side,  Porte  Renart. 

Jeanne  had  never  seen  any  fortifications  except 
those  permanent  defenses  drawn  around  old  cities. 
The  walls  of  Orleans  were  from  seven  to  nine  feet 
thick,  and  from  twenty-two  to  thirty  feet  high,  set 
with  thirty-nine  towers.  No  parapet  guarded  the  top, 
but  a  temporary  barrier  of  wood  had  been  carried 
around.  The  towers  were  from  two  to  three  hundred 
feet  apart,  except  at  the  gates,  which  were  flanked  by 
them.  They  were  built  three  stories  high,  garnished 
with  dormer  openings  and  machicolations,  a  kind  of 
jutting  galleried  top  with  open  spaces  below  for  shoot- 
ing missiles  or  pouring  down  boiling  lead  on  assail- 
ants. The  walls  of  Orleans  were  in  good  condition. 
What  Jeanne  tried  to  comprehend  with  prehensile 
reach  and  grasp  of  mind  was  the  blockade  the  English 
had  drawn  around  them.  And  so  swift  were  her 
military  impressions  that  she  has  been  called  a  tacti- 
cian of  the  first  order. 

The  English  had  one  bastile  and  four  great  boule- 
vards extending  from  the  faubourg  opposite  the  north- 
west gate  to  the  Loire.  In  midstream,  on  a  little 
island,  was  another  boulevard,  and  on  the  south  shore 
another.  The  Tournelles,  a  fort  with  a  drawbridge, 
guarded  the  south  end  of  the  bridge,  and  on  the  bank 
fronting  that  was  a  boulevard  which  was  itself  pro- 


158  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

tected  by  a  bastile.  One  more  bastile  was  planted 
eastward  on  the  south  shore ;  and  on  the  north  shore, 
east  of  the  city,  built  around  the  ruin  of  a  church,  was 
that  large  bastile,  called  St.  Loup,  which  the  citizens 
had  held  at  bay  when  the  maid  entered  Orleans. 
This  commanded  the  road  to  Jargeau,  from  which  the 
English  drew  many  of  their  supplies,  and  was  one  of 
their  strongest  forts.  The  five  works  on  the  west 
side  were  connected  by  covered  trenches.  Jeanne 
learned  that  a  bastile  was  a  fortress  of  wood  or  stone 
with  double  ditches  or  moats,  while  boulevards  were 
earthworks  consisting  of  single  moats  drawn  around 
an  inclosure.1  Isolated,  or  placed  before  a  gate  or 
around  a  bastile,  the  boulevards  bristled  over  the  crest 
with  a  ruff  of  iron-tipped  spikes  called  chevaux-de- 
frise.  Both  kinds  of  English  fortifications  were 
rectangular,  with  a  belt  of  moats  at  the  four  corners. 
The  principal  English  camp  was  west  of  the  city. 

When  Jeanne  had  made  the  entire  circuit  outside 
the  walls,  and  returned  to  the  Renart  gate,  she  called 
to  the  English,  with  her  mailed  hands  around  her 
mouth:  "Attend!  Here  is  news";  and  a  bowman 
beside  her  shot  an  arrow  to  which  was  bound  a  piece 
of  parchment.  Her  voice,  reaching  out  in  a  prolonged 
tone,  fell  on  the  invaders'  ears  before  the  arrow  stopped 
short  of  their  intrenchments.  The  parchment  carried 
her  second  letter  to  the  English,  bidding  them  leave 
the  country  and  avoid  bloodshed.  One  had  been 
written  for  her  in  Poitiers,  and  she  had  despatched  it 
from  Tours.  A  soldier  in  hose  and  tunic  and  long, 
pointed  footwear  ran  out  and  picked  up  the  weighted 
1  Barth61emy  de  Beauregard. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  159 

arrow.  He  shouted  insulting  words  at  the  maid,  and 
his  mates  howled  in  chorus.  They  would  hoot  the 
devil  to  his  face. 

"Now  God  help  them,"  said  Jeanne,  as  she  turned 
in  at  the  gate.  "  If  they  will  not  be  gone,  I  will  make 
them  such  a  ha-hu  as  will  never  be  forgotten." 

In  these  days  of  enormous  populations  the  armies 
that  fought  battles  of  far-reaching  consequences  in 
the  past  seem  incredibly  small.1  Existing  rolls  of  the 
English  soldiery  prove  that  less  than  six  thousand 
men  were  camped  around  Orleans;  and  the  army 
gathered  to  Jeanne's  standard,  including  the  garrison, 
amounted  to  about  the  same  number.  There  were, 
however,  many  pages,  bow-  and  arrow-makers,  and 
laborers,  as  well  as  camp-followers  and  parasites, 
which  always  infest  troops,  on  both  sides.  And 
Orleans  lacked  even  this  small  army  until  four  days 
after  the  maid's  entrance.  The  Bastard  set  out 
secretly  in  the  night,  and  went  to  Blois  to  hasten  the 
return  of  the  troops  by  the  north  shore  of  the  Loire. 
He  found  all  the  captains  quarreling,  and  about  to 
disband.  La  Tre"mouille,  the  dauphin's  favorite,  had 
come  to  Blois,  and  openly  ridiculed  a  campaign  under 
a  woman.  The  Bastard  of  Orleans,  desperate  with 
the  needs  of  his  city,  rallied  the  men,  and  led  them 
himself  on  the  road. 

1  "Abundance  of  precious  metals,  the  facilities  of  transpor- 
tation, the  accumulated  works  of  generations,  knowledge  of 
how  to  utilize  the  resources  of  nature,  and  increase  of  popu- 
lations, have  given  to  great  states  to-day  an  assemblage  of 
forces  out  of  all  proportion  with  former  times." — "L'Arm^e 
Anglaise  vaincu  par  Jeanne  d'Arc,"  MM.  De  Molandon  et  Baron 
de  Beaucorps. 


160  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AKC 

When  they  were  distantly  seen  from  the  walls  of 
Orleans,  and  Jeanne  rode  out  to  meet  them  with  five 
hundred  of  the  garrison  moimted  to  attend  her,  the 
strangest  thing  happened  that  has  ever  been  recorded 
against  the  courage  of  a  great  nation.  It  seems  that 
the  English  might  have  made  a  sortie,  and  taken  her 
as  she  passed  betwixt  their  silent  boulevards ;  but  not 
a  soldier  stirred.  As  they  saw  her  near  at  hand  they 
cowered  below  the  earthworks— great-limbed  Britons, 
whose  name  has  been  a  terror  in  the  earth  for  a  thou- 
sand years,  whose  stubborn  valor  has  passed  into  a 
proverb  of  our  time.  Some  of  the  maid's  followers 
eyed  this  silent  and  motionless  panic  with  distrust  5 
but  Bertrand  de  Poulengy  remembered  the  dumb 
terror  that  held  numb  and  unable  to  move  the  men 
who  wanted  to  throw  her  into  the  river  at  Bar-sur- 
Aube. 

The  English  commander  Talbot  had  borne  part  in 
many  campaigns.  He  had  pushed  the  line  of  fortifi- 
cations around  Orleans.  No  more  sagacious  soldier 
had  been  sent  across  the  Channel ;  and  the  Duke  of 
Bedford,  Regent  of  England  and  general  of  this  inva- 
sion of  France,  had  then  his  headquarters  not  far 
away  at  Chartres.  Neither  martial  skill  nor  awe  of 
regal  power  moved  the  soldiers  from  their  trenches. 
A  reinforcement  was  expected  under  Sir  John  Fastolf ; 
but  what  could  increase  of  numbers  do  for  men  who 
felt  themselves  unable  to  move  while  the  maid  led  her 
troops  into  Orleans? 

Artillery  as  it  is  now  understood  was  then  a  power 
unknown.  Orleans  had  mounted  upon  its  walls,  or 
on  wheeled  platforms  which  could  be  pushed  outside 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC  161 

the  gates,  seventy-one  mouths  of  fire,  all  made  of  cop- 
per, as  a  chronicler  has  told  us,  some  of  the  cannon 
being  lent  by  a  neighboring  town.  The  English  for- 
tifications were  armed  with  better  artillery.  Gun- 
powder, though  a  factor  of  war  since  the  battle  of 
Cre"cy,  was  not  used  at  all  as  an  explosive.  This  siege 
was  not  made  a  subterranean  war,  yet  the  English 
had  miners  with  them,  and  large  vases  of  water  were 
kept  filled  within  the  walls,  and  men  watched  for  the 
wrinkles  which  would  betray  any  displacement  of 
earth  underneath.  The  western  part  of  the  city,  on 
account  of  its  low  wall,  was  most  exposed  to  bombard- 
ment ;  but  nobody  fled  from  it,  and  the  pucelle  had 
been  lodged  there. 

Knowledge  of  many  things  was  crushed  into 
Jeanne's  mind  at  once.  These  days  were  one  colossal 
dream,  in  which  she  grasped  to  herself,  swift  minute 
after  swift  minute,  the  facts  and  utensils  of  war.  She 
had  heard  of  ballistic  and  catapults,  ponderous  ma- 
chinery for  throwing  stones,  great  beams  of  which  yet 
cumbered  the  walls ;  but  gunpowder  artillery  delighted 
her.  There  were  bombards  on  wheels,  and  stationary 
cannon,  both  loaded  with  balls  of  stone  through  the 
mouth,  and  smaller  culverins  discharging  bullets  of 
lead.  Fusees  and  fire-lances  were  also  projected  to 
set  in  a  blaze  the  enemy's  works.  Some  of  the  stone 
cannon-balls  weighed  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 
The  noise  of  this  powder  warfare  was  great,  but  it 
had  not  the  force  to  breach  walls,  though,  like  all  the 
fighting  of  the  middle  ages,  it  was  destructive  to  hu- 
man life. 

In  the  warm  May  afternoon  of  the  day  the  troops 
11 


162  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ABC 

entered,  Bertrand  stood  in  the  courtyard  polishing 
Jeanne's  armor. 

"  They  shall  call  it  white  as  long  as  I  am  her  squire," 
he  said  to  Pierre,  who  sat  on  a  bench  watching  him ; 
"  this  new  D'Aulon  hopes  to  be  knighted  sooner  than 
I  do.  I  will  say  this  for  Messire  d'Aulon— he  can 
buckle  the  parts  together  with  speed,  and  he  will 
make  a  fair  knight,  but  never  lead  retinue  like  De 
Metz  of  Novelopont." 

"I  wish  we  had  more  knights  among  us  like  De 
Metz,"  said  Pierre,  letting  his  eyes  move  to  the  stables 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  court.  Pierre  was  yet 
armed,  and  Bertrand  had  removed  only  his  gauntlets 
to  handle  the  steel  plates.  "  A  council  has  just  been 
held  without  my  sister,  and  my  lord  the  Bastard  had 
much  trouble  to  pacify  one  knight,  who  was  for  giv- 
ing up  his  standard  and  withdrawing.  'I  will  fight 
with  your  maid/  saith  he;  'but  I  will  never  fight 
under  her.  What  doth  a  peasant  wench  know  of  war  ? 
Let  her  go  home  and  milk  her  cows.' " 

The  little  curtains  of  chain-mail  which  hung  below 
Jeanne's  body-armor  swept  with  a  clank  against  the 
bench  as  Bertrand  shifted  the  leg  on  which  he  rested 
it.  His  blue  eyes  spoke  for  him  to  Pierre. 


IX 


HERE  was  silence  in  the  town  following 
the  morning's  excitement.  Gunners  were 
resting  in  the  English  camp,  and  no  stone 
burst  over  the  tile  roofs.  The  lull  of  that 
booming  made  stillness  quiver  in  the  ears,  and  no- 
body trod  past  the  gates.  White  clouds  moved  lumi- 
nous across  the  blue.  The  low  sky  of  France,  unswept 
by  wind,  tempering  its  sunshine  by  a  divinely  bright 
grayness,  lay  brooding  growths  over  that  whole  coun- 
try, from  the  great  plain  of  the  Beauce  north  of  Or- 
leans, the  granary  of  France  in  good  times,  where 
many  horizons  cannot  contain  the  sheaves,  to  the  long 
waste  of  the  Sologne  southward.  Both  were  then  un- 
plowed  and  unplanted,  trampled  by  hoofs,  and  turn- 
ing green  only  with  the  irrepressible  moist  verdure  of 
spring. 

Jeanne  lay  asleep  in  a  paneled  room,  which  she 
shared  nightly  with  the  treasurer's  little  daughter, 
under  a  vaulted  ceiling  of  blue-stone  with  many  weird 
white  griffins  cut  on  its  arch.  The  sashes  of  three 
round-topped  windows  were  opened  inward.  No 
sound  came  from  the  court,  for  Bertrand  polished  the 

163 


164  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

armor  with  a  piece  of  soft  leather,  and  the  joints  of 
his  own  harness  moved  silently  on  rivets.  When  he 
spoke  again,  his  voice  did  not  mount  to  the  sloping 
window-sills. 

"  Some  of  these  knights  complain  that  since  Francis- 
can monks  began  to  roam  about  the  country,  teaching 
people  their  doctrine,  we  have  nothing  but  mysteries 
and  revelations.  In  God's  name,  how  can  they  ill- 
treat  a  pucelle  who  led  them  to-day  past  a  cowed  foe, 
that  they  have  been  running  from  ever  since  you  and 
I  were  born  ?  " 

Pierre  shook  his  head,  and  so  freed  himself  of 
anxiety. 

"I  know  nothing  of  these  Southern  humors.  The 
best  thing  I  have  seen  in  France  is  that  good  well  of 
St.  Martin  at  Tours.  I  have  been  thirsting  for  it," 
said  Pierre,  lowering  his  narrowed  eyes  to  the  basking 
ground,  "  ever  since  we  came  away." 

The  two  young  men  were  startled  by  a  cry  through 
the  open  sashes : 

"  My  arms !  my  arms  !  Quick !  quick !  my  arms  ! 
The  blood  of  Frenchmen  is  running  on  the  ground  !  " 

Bertrand  gathered  up  the  pieces  of  armor,  and  ran 
with  Pierre  through  a  long,  narrow  passage  which  led 
to  Jeanne's  chamber.  She  was  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  where  she  had  leaped  from  the  bed.  Her 
eyes  had  the  rapt  look  left  in  them  by  her  visions. 
Her  squire  with  swift  fingers,  and  her  brother  with 
clumsier  efforts,  buckled  on  breastplate  and  backpiece. 
Thigh- and- front-plates  were  adjusted,  leaving  the  back 
of  the  leg  free  to  press  the  horse ;  the  feet  covered 
with  mailed  shoes ;  the  armpieces  and  gauntlets  made 


THE   DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  165 

fast ;  the  helmet,  the  belt  and  sword.  She  flew  to  the 
courtyard.  No  Louis  de  Coutes  was  in  sight  with 
her  horse.  Pierre  brought  it,  bitting  its  mouth  and 
strapping  on  the  high-backed  saddle  while  Bertrand 
fastened  the  mailed  housings.  They  helped  her  mount 
from  the  bench,  and  her  squire  flew  back  for  her 
standard.  There  was  no  time  to  bring  it  forth;  he 
passed  it  to  her  through  the  window. 

"  Follow !  "  she  cried  to  them,  as  Pierre  opened  the 
gate ;  and  both  flung  themselves  on  their  horses.  They 
began  to  hear  a  tumult  and  shouts  of  disaster  eastward. 
They  swerved  behind  her  across  one  street,  and  flying 
horse-hoofs  struck  fire  from  stones  paving  that  billowy, 
rising  and  falling,  slightly  bent  thoroughfare  to  the 
old  Roman  road  called  Rue  Burgundy.  Bloody- 
headed  citizens  passed  carrying  wounded  men.  Ber- 
trand shouted  to  Pierre  through  his  teeth,  as  they  rode 
knee  to  knee : 

'•'  The  fools  went  out  to  take  the  bastile  of  St.  Loup 
without  her." 

A  third  of  a  league  and  three  minutes  brought  them 
to  the  Burgundy  gate,  which  was  already  open  to  let 
in  a  rabble  of  retreating  French.  On  these  came — 
archers  and  men-at-arms,  captains,  citizens,  and  cross- 
bowmen,  those  mounted  pressing  in  first,  those  on 
foot  flying  wild-eyed.  And  after  them,  in  full  career, 
were  the  pursuing  English. 

Jeanne  rose  in  her  stirrups  with  the  lift  of  an  eagle, 
and  raised  her  banner  high  above  the  panic-driven 
mob.  Now  was  heard  a  woman's  voice,  a  leader's 
voice,  an  angel's  voice,  bell-like,  spreading  its  tones 
wave  upon  wave,  until  they  seemed  to  reach  the  hori- 


166  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC 

zon,  to  ripple  over  the  Beauce,  to  die  away  in  the 
Sologne,  to  drive  eastward  far  across  the  bastile  of 
St.  Loup: 

"  Amys !  Amys !  ayez  bon  courage !  Sus !  Sus ! 
Us  sont  tons  nostres !  " 1 

Like  an  arrow,  the  maid  and  the  white  banner  shot 
through  the  Burgundy  gate  at  the  English,  and  they 
paused  and  wavered.  The  foremost  pursuers  shrank 
down  bodily,  and  moved  backward,  facing  her.  At 
her  sweet  and  terrible  cry  they  turned,  howling  in 
English  or  Franco-Norman : 

"  The  witch !  The  witch !  To  cover— the  witch  is 
let  loose ! " 

The  rallied  French  followed  her.  Those  who  had 
fled  farthest  ran  wild  with  courage  on  her  track.  It 
had  been  their  custom  so  many  years  to  scatter  before 
the  English  that  the  sight  of  English  backs  frenzied 
them.  All  the  knights  roused  in  the  city  joined  in 
the  pursuit ;  the  Bastard  of  Orleans,  with  his  retinue, 
came  flying  from  the  ducal  house  by  St.  Catherine's 
gate;  the  young  Due  d'Alenc.on,  La  Hire,  De  Xan- 
trailles,  De  Metz,  each  with  his  men  shouting  to  the 
rescue,  flew  over  the  Roman  road,  crossed  the  double 
moats,  and  scaled  the  works  of  St.  Loup. 

They  drove,  they  slew,  they  swept  the  enemy.  The 
maid  was  in  the  church  around  which  the  bastile  was 
built,  pulling  refugees  from  the  belfry,  sending  back 
prisoners.  Everywhere  St.  Catherine's  sword  was  seen 
as  lightning.  Shouts  rang  beyond  Orleans  and  the 
English  camp.  Before  the  camp,  roused  by '.trumpets, 
could  hurry  reinforcements  around  the  walls,  St.  Loup 
1  Her  actual  battle-cry. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  167 

was  taken,  sacked,  riddled,  destroyed.  The  eastern 
stronghold  of  the  English  was  gone. 

When  it  was  finished,  the  sweating  soldiers,  flushed 
and  roaring  with  success,  abated  the  noise  of  their 
joy  over  France's  first  victory  in  years,  for  the  pucelle 
was  down  on  her  knees  protecting  a  dying  English- 
man. 

"  Let  him  alone ! "  she  cried,  striking  a  lance  from 
his  breast.  "  Do  not  hurt  him  any  more !  Why  will 
they  not  go  back  to  their  homes  ?  I  cannot  bear  to 
see  them  die !  " 

This  was  the  witch— this  tender  face,  like  the  face 
of  some  dear  maid  at  home,  dropping  tears  under  a 
lifted  vizor.  Her  enemy  died  with  this  image  upon 
his  eyeballs. 

But  in  the  city  all  the  bells  rang,  and  people  ran 
laughing  through  the  streets.  *Now  had  their  maid 
given  proof  that  she  was  sent.  St.  Loup  was  taken, 
and  the  English  were  cut  off  from  Jargeau.  The  sol- 
diers would  have  lain  upon  the  pavement  and  let  her 
ride  over  their  bodies.  They  were  for  going  out  to 
attack  the  Tourelles  next  morning,  but  became  reli- 
gious as  soon  as  it  was  known  that  the  maid  desired  to 
keep  that  day  holy,  it  being  Ascension  day.  "  She  is 
forever  taking  the  bon  Dieu," 1  they  said  to  one  an- 
other ;  "  her  common  food  is  nothing  but  bread  and 
watered  wine." 

Both  besieged  and  besiegers  knew  the  most  impor- 
tant English  fortress  was  that  called  the  Tourelles,  on 
the  end  of  the  bridge.  The  English,  by  spreading 
their  forces  from  boulevard  to  boulevard  over  a  space 

1  Sacrament. 


168  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

of  nearly  two  leagues,  diminished  their  strength ;  but 
the  fort  on  the  bridge  was  well  manned. 

The  bridge,  a  stone  structure  of  the  twelfth  century, 
had  nineteen  arches,  and  from  the  city  gate  of  St. 
Catherine  to  the  south  shore  was  more  than  a  thousand 
feet  long.  Beyond  the  fifth  arch  it  rested  on  and 
crossed  a  narrow  island,  where  a  chapel,  a  hospital, 
and  a  few  houses  remained.  Here  some  houses  were 
built  also  upon  the  bridge,  and  they  had  been  con- 
verted into  a  small  bastile.  Above  the  twelfth  arch 
was  a  venerable  cross,  and  at  the  end  of  the  bridge 
was  the  strong  fort  of  the  Tourelles,  separated  from 
the  Sologne  side  by  a  drawbridge,  and  guarded  on 
land  by  both  a  bastile  and  a  boulevard.  The  French 
fortified  these  towers  for  their  own  safety.  The  Eng- 
lish had  assaulted  and  carried  the  place  in  October. 
That  same  day  their  commander,  Salisbury,  was  killed 
in  it  by  a  stone  cannon-ball.  The  retreating  French 
broke  down  those  arches  giving  entrance  to  St.  Cath- 
erine's gate,  and  their  enemies  barricaded  the  broken 
end.  To  retake  the  Tourelles  would  not  only  clear  the 
blockade  half-way  around  Orleans :  it  would  cut  the 
English  off  from  the  object  of  their  siege,  which  was 
invasion  south  of  the  Loire. 

"  I  shall  be  wounded  to-day  betwixt  my  neck  and 
my  breast,"  said  Jeanne,  as  her  squire  armed  her  the 
second  morning  after  Ascension  day.  Bertrand's  lips 
whitened  and  stiffened. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ? " 

"  The  counsel  have  told  me." 

She  seldom  noticed  him  when  he  was  girding  her 
buckles,  but  this  time  she  put  her  hands  affectionately 
on  his  shoulders.  As  he  stood  level  with  her  own  eyes 


THE  DAYS   OF   JEANNE  D'ARC  169 

he  trembled  with  unsteadiness,  which  the  maid  could 
not  understand,  and  he  breathed  with  the  rise  and  fall 
of  her  own  breast  in  its  steel  cuirass. 

"Bertrand,  I  am  growing  to  love  you  almost  as 
well  as  I  do  Pierrelo,"  she  said,  with  large  and  open 
natural  affection.  "  You  have  been  a  man  since  you 
came  into  France.  You  have  seen  I  was  born  for  this 
labor.  And  what  if  blood  must  go  out  of  me  this 
day  ?  I  have  told  the  dauphin  I  cannot  last  above  a 
year  or  two,  and  he  had  best  make  use  of  me.  Have 
you  ever  thought  it  a  good  to  die  ? " 

"Yes,  I  have  so  thought  it,"  he  answered,  facing 
her  steadily,  his  eyes  swimming  in  rapture  stolen  from 
her  touch.  Jeanne  had  not  a  woman's  sense  of  this 
great  passion.  She  would  as  freely  and  honestly  have 
laid  her  hands  on  the  knight  of  Novelopont,  who  had 
just  received  back  from  the  dauphin  the  moneys  he 
had  expended  on  her  journey  into  France,  or  the  Due 
d'Alenc.on,  whom  she  had  promised  to  keep  safe  for 
his  young  wife.  She  was  a  comrade  to  every  man 
whose  strength  went  with  hers  against  the  invader. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  Jeanne,  in  a  whisper;  "since 
these  voices  have  come  to  me,  there  is  such  anguish  of 
homesickness  to  be  gone  with  them  when  they  leave 
me  that  my  spirit  leaps  at  thought  of  death.  Oh, 
think  of  being  through— well  through— with  what  we 
are  obliged  to  undertake !  Yet  I  am  so  alive,"  laughed 
the  maid.  "  I  enjoy  my  body ;  I  love  my  family,  and 
my  home,  and  this  world;  but  more  than  anything 
else  under  the  sky  I  love  sacred  France.  Bertrand,  if 
you  could  hear  my  heart  beat,  the  sound  would  be 
nothing  but  'France— France— France— France ! ' 

"  The  battle  this  day  will  go  hard  with  us,"  said 


170  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

Jeanne,  removing  her  hands  from  her  squire,  and 
letting  him  put  on  her  helmet.  She  pushed  up  the 
grotesque  pointed  vizor,  and  her  voice,  coming  from 
the  case  of  steel,  was  weirdly  prophetic. 

"  It  will  not  "be  until  my  standard  touches  the  steep 
side  of  the  boulevard  that  we  can  go  in.  I  do  not 
know  when  the  moment  will  be,  but  I  shall  be  told. 
Bertrand,  I  want  you  to  bear  my  standard  in  the  as- 
sault of  the  Tourelles ;  but  do  not  press  into  the  f  oss 
and  let  the  banner  float  against  the  works  until  I  tell 
you;  it  will  do  no  good  until  the  English  are  given 
into  our  hands." 

Early  as  it  was,  the  bombarding  had  begun,  though 
gunpowder  was  used  in  such  insufficient  quantities, 
and  the  cannon  around  Orleans  were  trained  at  such 
angles,  that  projectiles  tumbled  perpendicularly  from 
the  height  to  which  they  were  thrown  over  the  city. 
Orleans  answered  with  the  mouths  of  its  pieces  through 
embrasures  in  the  walls.  Like  other  towns,  Orleans 
could  make  its  own  gunpowder,  mixing  the  parts, 
however,  so  that  minimum  force  was  generated  in  the 
burning.  But  there  were  no  firearms  to  be  carried 
by  the  marching  soldiers.  Archers  and  arbaletriers 
formed  the  most  considerable  portion  of  any  body  of 
troops.  The  rule  throughout  Christendom  was  to 
support  any  number  of  men-at-arms  with  three  times 
as  many  archers. 

Cavalry,  as  the  word  is  now  understood,  did  not 
exist.  Men-at-arms  and  archers  both  went  mounted 
or  afoot,  as  their  undertakings  required,  and  in  action 
they  were  necessarily  separated  and  independent  of 
each  other.  Soldiers  who  hewed  with  guisarmes  and 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC  171 

pole-axes,  or  drove  with  lances,  hammers,  and  swords, 
could  not  be  embarrassed  by  archers,  over  whose 
pickets  and  bodies  they  must  ride  or  run  from  behind, 
and  whose  bolts  they  must  risk  after  passing  if  both 
advanced  together,  for  battle  was  then  a  mighty  clus- 
ter of  hand-to-hand  duels.  Knights,  nobles,  princes, 
and  even  kings,  threw  themselves  at  the  head  of  their 
followers  into  these  combats.  No  man  stood  in  his 
place  to  be  shot  at;  but  he  picked  him  out  a  lusty 
opponent,  and  if  he  had  the  good  fortune,  progressed 
foot  by  foot  over  fallen  bodies  into  the  enemy's 
ground. 

At  dawn  that  seventh  day  of  May  nearly  every  sol- 
dier in  Orleans,  obeying  the  maid,  had  gone  shriven 
to  mass.  No  lewd  women  had  been  allowed  to  join 
the  march  from  Tours  or  Blois.  The  barracks  were 
indeed  like  monks'  cells,  and  every  profane  word  was 
punished  by  discipline,  at  her  orders,  and  herein  the 
captains  regarded  their  sovereign's  command  to  sub- 
mit themselves  to  her  direction  better  than  in  matters 
of  war. 

One  commander  neglected  the  duty  of  confession, 
remembering  it  only  as  he  galloped  past  the  misty 
cathedral  front  with  his  retinue.  He  struck  his  mailed 
hip  and  swore,  and  Poton  de  Xantrailles,  riding  near 
him,  laughed  aloud. 

"  Hug  thy  holy  bones  and  chuckle,  Poton,"  retorted 
La  Hire.  "A  man  that  hath  nothing  but  a  clean 
conscience  inside  his  armor,  and  gives  his  mind  to 
handling  a  shield  as  thou  dost,  is  safe  anywhere." 

There  was  a  glut  of  men  at  the  Burgundy  gate. 
Horses  could  scarcely  move  in  the  crowd.  Jeanne's 


172  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AEC 

standard  showed  near  the  portal,  and  behind  it,  over 
the  Bastard,  was  displayed  the  great  red  banner  of 
Orleans,  covered  with  needlework.  The  governor  of 
the  city,  having  received  conflicting  orders  from  that 
council  held  the  day  the  troops  entered,  refused  to 
open  the  Burgundy  gate.  He  had  been  told  that  the 
attack  on  the  English  camp  was  to  be  made  through 
Porte  Renart,  and  he  was  not  the  man  to  give  way, 
even  though  both  pucelle  and  Bastard  commanded 
him. 

"  Break  his  head  with  his  keys,  and  throw  him  over 
the  wall !  "  shouted  La  Hire,  who,  sputtering  with  the 
effort  to  keep  back  words  unfit  for  the  pucelle's  ears, 
swore  with  tremendous  zeal  by  the  baton/ 

Orleans  was  surrounded  by  a  f  oss  which,  under  the 
gates,  expanded  to  deep  paved  courts.  As  the  Porte 
Burgundy  was  forced  from  within,  the  drawbridge  fell 
with  a  clang,  and  the  crowd  burst  out,  gentler  riders 
and  less  aggressive  foot-soldiers  being  thrown  back- 
ward by  the  recoil.  Each  captain  sought  to  put  in 
order  again  his  retinue  of  twenty-five  or  thirty  lances 
and  seventy-five  archers.  Jeanne's  confessor,  who 
always  rode  with  her  as  both  priest  and  surgeon,  was 
pushed  on  his  palfrey,  which  replaced  the  jaded 
Domremy  beast,  across  the  front  of  La  Hire's  great 
horse. 

"Behold  the  reward  of  swearing  by  the  baton," 
shouted  De  Xantrailles  over  the  general  discomfort. 
"  La  Hire  hath  not  confessed  himself,  but  he  is  per- 
mitted to  go  out  with  the  broad  side  of  a  friar  for  a 
breastplate." 

"La    Hire  will    confess    himself    now,"   retorted 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  173 

Jeanne's  convert.  "Turn  thee,  Brother  Pasquerel, 
for  when  we  pass  yon  portal,  adieu,  religion.  La 
Hire  hath  committed  the  usual  sins  of  a  man-at-arms, 
as  well  as  he  could  behind  the  pucelle's  back,  who 
gives  a  man  no  chance  even  to  wash  his  mouth  with 
a  good  sweet  oath,  and  he  begs  for  absolution." 

The  friar,  reining  alongside  that  squat,  broad  suit 
of  armor,  murmured  at  the  casque  which  was  inclined 
toward  him.  Whether  he  spoke  forgiveness  or  re- 
proof to  the  sinner,"  La  Hire  accepted  it  with  a  hearty 
"  Amen."  He  set  spurs  to  his  horse  and  shot  through 
the  gate. 

"Now,  God,"  said  he  aloud  and  free-hearted,  "be 
pleased  to  do  for  La  Hire  this  day  what  La  Hire  would 
do  for  thee  if  he  were  God  and  thou  wert  La  Hire." 

There  was  no  longer  a  bastile  of  St.  Loup  to  pre- 
vent the  easy  transportation  of  troops  across  the  river. 
Boats  landed  the  army  on  the  south  shore,  where  they 
had  first  halted.  The  English  camp  on  the  west  side 
took  no  part  in  the  action  of  this  day,  except  continu- 
ing to  bombard  the  city. 

The  little  bastile  called  St.  Jean  le  Blanc  had  been 
taken  by  the  French  in  a  sortie  on  the  day  after  As- 
cension, its  garrison  retreating  to  the  bridge  boulevard. 
This  was  the  first  time  that  Jeanne  had  seen  chausse- 
trappes — small  pieces  of  iron  which,  falling  in  any 
position,  turned  a  foot-piercing  point  uppermost. 
The  English  threw  chausse-trappes  behind  themselves, 
and  every  lance,  English  or  French,  had  them  as  part 
of  his  equipment. 

The  French  archers  advanced  within  shot  of  the 
Tourelles,  each  carrying  with  him  a  tough,  sharp  picket 


174  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

to  drive  into  the  ground  if  such  bristling  defense 
should  be  needed  against  horses.  With  arrows  laid 
in  a  row  under  his  feet,  ready  to  the  grasp,  he  sent 
his  feathered  shots  into  the  bodies  of  the  enemy. 
A  horizontal  snow-storm  thus  swept  the  Tourelles. 
Long  practice  was  required  to  make  an  expert  archer, 
while  lances  had  only  to  drive  and  dare,  to  hew  with 
guisarme  or  strike  with  hammer,  protecting  them- 
selves with  their  pavas,  or  shields.  Crossbowmen 
also,  setting  their  weapons  point  downward  on  the 
ground,  and  holding  them  with  foot  in  stirrup  and 
bow  across  their  knees,  while  they  whirled  double 
handles  to  adjust  arrows  in  grooves,  shot  bolts  by  a 
trigger  which  exceeded  the  strength  of  the  human  hand 
on  a  bowstring.  The  range  of  crossbowmen  was  much 
greater  than  the  range  attained  by  archers,  though 
the  English  were  said  to  excel  them  with  good  single 
yew  bows  and  yard-long  shafts. 

Five  hundred  men  fought  in  the  Tourelles,  and  they 
were  made  a  host  by  William  Gladsdal,  a  mere  squire, 
who,  though  far  below  other  captains  in  social  rank, 
had  merited  and  received  entire  command  of  the  south 
shore.  He  drew  his  force  into  the  outwork  or  bastile 
on  the  bank,  which  was  unusually  steep  from  the 
bottom  of  the  moat  to  the  top  of  the  earthen  crest. 
Boiling  oil,  molten  lead,  stones,  arrows,  lances,  axes, 
maces,  or  clubs  fought  down  the  ascending  French. 
Carrying  St.  Loup  by  assault  was  a  light  feat  of  arms 
compared  with  driving  a  man  like  Gladsdal  from  his 
position.  His  men  shouted  insulting  words  at  the 
witch  of  the  Armagnacs.  The  noise  of  attack  and 
repulse  was  terrific.  Huge  pincers  dragged  timbers 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  176 

from  the  bastile.  The  French,  stooping  forward  with 
their  shields  slung  over  their  backs  for  defense,  ran 
up  scaling-ladders  to  seize  their  [enemies  at  the  top ; 
and  again  and  again  were  the  ladders  flung  down, 
with  stones,  molten  lead,  and  boiling  oil  on  the  heads  of 
the  climbers.  Shouts,— " England  and  St.  George!" 
"  France  and  St.  Denis !  "  "  Remember  Agincourt !  " 
—the  cries  of  captains,  the  clang  of  axes  on  armor, 
the  crack  of  oak  when  split,  the  twang  of  bowstrings, 
and  the  steady  singing  of  arrows— all  this  confusion 
of  battle  was  heard  by  Jeanne  with  swooning  ears. 
From  the  first  ladder  planted  she  had  fallen,  with  an 
arrow  piercing  that  joint  of  her  armor  where  the 
shoulder  moved  on  the  neckpiece. 

A  knight  lifted  her  out  of  the  ditch.  She  felt  the 
jarring  as  he  dragged  her  back  from  the  press. 

"  You  are  hurt,  pucelle ;  here,  take  my  horse." 

"  Who  are  you,  messire  ? " 

He  threw  up  his  vizor  and  showed  his  face.  "De 
Gamaches,  who  flouted  you  in  council.  But  I  was 
mistaken  in  you,  pucelle.  Bear  me  no  malice,  and 
take  my  horse." 

"  I  bear  no  one  malice,  Messire  de  Gamaches,  and  I 
will  gladly  take  your  horse." 

Bertrand's  arm  steadied  her  in  the  saddle.  She  saw 
her  banner  half  furled  in  his  hand.  She  swooned  in 
a  vineyard  beyond  the  ruined  faubourg,  the  bolt  of 
anguish  still  piercing  her.  Brother  Pasquerel,  and 
Pierre,  and  many  more  drew  around  her,  hesitating 
to  pull  it  out,  though  they  took  her  armor  off  and 
bathed  her  face.  The  point  stuck  out  behind  her  the 
length  of  her  finger.  She  herself  sat  up  and  laughed, 


176  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

to  take  the  anguish  from  their  faces,  and  jerked  it  out, 
drenching  her  breast  with  blood .  Pierre  held  her  stead- 
ily, but  Bertrand  doubled  forward  on  his  knees  and  hid 
his  eyes  from  that  blood  and  from  the  sacred  baring  of 
her  shoulder,  which  the  friar  oiled  and  bound  up. 

She  prayed  voicelessly,  lying  on  the  earth  among 
the  vines ;  and  when  the  first  f aintness  was  past  she 
rose  to  her  knees. 

The  attack  on  the  Tourelles  had  not  begun  until 
ten  o'clock,  all  the  troops  being  first  conveyed  across 
the  river.  It  was  afternoon  when  Jeanne  noticed  the 
decreasing  noise  of  battle.  Discouraged  assailants,  led 
vainly  by  the  Bastard,  D'AlenQon,  La  Hire,  and  De 
Xantrailles,  were  drawing  back  from  the  Tourelles  out 
of  bow-shot,  and  in  spite  of  their  captains  making  for 
the  boats. 

"  En  nom  De !  "  besought  the  maid, "  run— bear  word 
to  the  Bastard !  Tell  him  to  let  them  eat  and  drink 
and  rest.  The  men  are  faint.  When  their  strength 
comes  again  we  will  go  in,  for  the  place  is  ours." 

Noise  of  cannonading  continued  on  the  north  shore, 
and  smoke  spread  there  like  a  stratum  of  tinted  mist. 
The  cannon  in  the  Tourelles  and  the  boulevard,  which 
had  done  little  execution  in  a  hand-to-hand  struggle, 
now  threw  stones  into  the  fields  across  the  ruined 
faubourg.  Perhaps  the  French,  while  they  ate  and 
drank  such  food  as  had  been  brought  from  the  town, 
with  missiles  like  small  globes  dropping  about  them, 
remembered,  and  cursed  their  leaders  in  remembering, 
that  it  was  not  the  pucelle's  counsel  to  attempt  these 
works.  She  had  wished  first  to  attack  the  English 
camp,  but,  with  good  sense  as  strong  as  genius,  made 
herself  subservient  to  the  captains. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  177 

All  the  western  plain  and  river  turned  rosy  as  the 
sun  slipped  low.  There  was  an  old  path  winding  into 
the  trampled  vineyard,  and  it  became  pink  under  the 
pink  sky.  The  two  towers  of  the  Tourelles,  one  round, 
the  other  many-angled,  swam  aloft  in  a  sea  of  yellow- 
ing light.  That  embankment  by  the  river,  where  an 
unprotected  battery  had  been  taken  the  day  before, 
betwixt  St.  Jean  le  Blanc  and  the  bridge,  stood  up 
clean-cut  in  the  magnifying  air. 

GladsdaPs  garrison,  serving  their  guns,  and  less 
troubled  by  the  scattered  French  than  by  marksmen 
on  the  city  walls,  saw  with  astonishment  that  their 
assailants  were  again  massing.  More  than  that,  they 
saw  the  white  armor  of  the  witch  who  had  been  killed 
rise  up  in  the  weird  horizontal  sunset  light. 

"  There  are  white  birds  fluttering  about  her  head !  " 
some  of  them  gasped  to  others ;  "  do  you  see  the  white 
birds?" 

"  She  was  carried  off  with  an  arrow  through  her 
body,  and  here  she  comes  at  mad  gallop !  " 

The  maid  dashed  breakneck  into  the  ditch,  her  ban- 
ner carried  by  a  squire  racing  beside  her.  It  touched, 
it  swept  the  earthen  wall.  Again  that  sweet  bell-voice, 
which  carried  the  soul  of  France  to  certain  victory, 
rolled  over  the  doomed  Tourelles : 

"  Ayez  bon  courage !     Us  sont  tous  nostres !  " 

Men-at-arms  flung  their  shields  over  their  tbacks, 
and  plunged  from  ladder-tops  into  the  bastile— arch- 
ers, knights,  captains,  nobles. 

They  carried  it;  they  forced  the  boulevard  behind 

it.     The  English  ran  to  the  drawbridge  to  retreat  into 

the  Tourelles.    At  the  Orleans  end  of  the  bridge  the 

pucelle's  voice  was  answered  by  rejoicing  cries.     St. 

12 


178  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

Catherine's  gate  flew  open,  the  garrison  and  citizens 
of  Orleans  running  with  timbers  to  cover  the  broken 
arches  and  assault  G-ladsdal  on  their  side.  Old  Jehan 
of  Lorraine,  the  master  cannoneer,  who  had  once  fallen 
into  English  hands  and  lost  his  piece  when  it  was 
trundled  on  its  movable  table  outside  the  gates,  danced 
in  rapture  on  the  wall ;  for  the  ball  that  he  sent  from 
his  battery,  as  the  boulevard  was  carried,  cut  away 
the  Tourelles  drawbridge  under  the  English,  and 
Gladsdal  and  his  men  were  dashed  into  the  river.  On 
went  the  shouting  French,  casting  across  the  gap 
planks  torn  from  outworks.  The  Tourelles,  the  pris- 
oners therein,  the  bridge,  the  battle,  were  theirs,  and 
they  marched  with  the  maid  through  St.  Catherine's 
gate  into  Orleans. 

"  She  drives  the  English,  and  then  she  weeps  over 
them  as  they  die,"  exulted  the  soldiers.  It  had  been 
indeed  a  great  waste  of  life.  "  More  prisoners  should 
have  been  taken  and  held  to  ransom,"  declared  La 
Hire ;  "  men  who  receive  but  eight  deniers  a  day  for 
military  service  need  all  the  Englishmen  they  can 
catch." 

This  often-described  battle,  which  turned  the  tide 
of  invasion  and  changed  the  history  of  the  world,  was 
ended ;  for  next  morning  the  English  raised  the  siege, 
and  setting  fire  to  their  line  of  remaining  works,  drew 
away.  A  blockade  which  had  lasted  eight  months, 
and  worn  out  all  the  military  resources  of  the  king- 
dom, was  broken  by  the  maid  in  three  days.  Te  Deum 
was  chanted  in  the  cathedral,  and  people  ran  shouting 
in  the  streets  all  night  long,  for  the  bells  rang  with- 
out ceasing  in  Orleans. 


N  a  warm  afternoon  late  in  July,  when  the 
sun  was  getting  low  behind  the  Domremy 
hills,  Mengette  watched  skylarks  rise  from 
the  ground.  She  had  two  flocks  of  geese 
on  the  uplands,  her  own  and  Isabel  Romee's,  and  kept 
them  apart,  nipping  grass,  and  from  wandering  into 
the  young  vines  below,  for  all  the  vineyards  were 
weighted  with  green  grapes  bunched  near  the  earth. 
The  vines  were  like  bushes  tied  to  stakes  with  wisps 
of  straw.  Wide,  open  fields  spread  along  the  ridge 
to  an  oak  jungle  southward.  Once,  when  the  young 
maids  were  racing  on  this  ridge,  Jehannette  had  seemed 
to  blow  like  a  leaf,  outstripping  them  all,  and  they 
looked  at  her  as  at  one  who  had  died  and  come  to  life 
again.  Mengette  remembered  that  this  had  caused 
her  to  feel  her  first  pang  of  separateness  from  her  play- 
mate. And  now  Jehannette,  parted  from  Domremy 
but  six  months,  was  at  Rheims  making  the  dauphin 
to  be  crowned ! 

Jean  Morel  and  Gerardin  d'fipinal  had  brought  the 
news  from  Chalons,  where  they  saw  her  and  the  march- 
ing army.  The  siege  of  Orleans  was  raised,  and  the 

179 


180  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

English  had  been  driven  from  Jargeau,  from  Meung 
and  Beaugency,  and  had  been  beaten  in  the  battle  of 
Patay.  Where  these  places  were  Mengette  did  not 
know,  but  she  had  the  words  by  heart.  Jargeau, 
Meung,  Beaugency,  and  Patay  all  taken  in  ten  days ! 
Jean  Morel  and  Gerardin  d'Epinal  said  that  Jehan- 
nette  was  leading  a  host  which  increased  every  hour ; 
for  whoever  had  a  horse  clapped  saddle  on  it  and  joined 
the  cavalcade,  bearing  his  own  expenses.  Troyes  had 
opened  its  gates  and  surrendered  to  the  dauphin  and 
the  maid— Troyes,  where  the  treaty  disinheriting  him 
had  been  made  by  his  mother  and  the  English !  Town 
after  town  delivered  up  its'  keys  and  returned  to  its 
natural  allegiance.  The  pucelle,  without  a  battle,  was 
sweeping  all  the  North  into  her  sovereign's  hands ! 

" i  The  pucelle '  is  the  name  they  give  her,"  said 
Gerardin,  proud  that  Jehannette  had  held  his  child  at 
the  baptismal  font ;  "  and  she  goes  like  a  great  gen- 
eral, in  cloth  of  gold,  on  magnificent  horses,  changing 
them  so  that  they  are  never  jaded.  The  soldiers  have 
an  awe  of  her  as  of  something  divine.  In  the  field 
she  sleeps  in  her  armor,  and  the  life  of  her  body  is 
hidden  from  them ;  yet  she  flung  herself  off  her  horse, 
and  shook  Jean  and  me  both  by  our  hands,  as  soon  as 
she  saw  us.  They  say  the  dauphin  would  have  kissed 
her  when  she  came  to  him  after  raising  the  siege  of 
Orleans,  but  not  even  he  hath  the  effrontery  to  handle 
her.  And  how  high  is  the  look  of  her  countenance ! 
She  laughs  like  little  Jehannette  yet,  but  I  would  as 
lief  have  St.  Margaret's  or  St.  Catherine's  eyes  on  me 
as  hers.  She  wears  burnished  mail  so  white  that  it 
shines  dazzling,  and  has  squires  and  servants  to  wait 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  181 

on  her.  We  saw  Pierre  and  Bertrand  de  Poulengy, 
and  for  confessor  she  hath  the  friar  who  set  forth  to 
the  wars  with  Pierre.  And  everybody  in  Chalons 
looked  once  at  the  Dauphin  Charles  and  his  retinue 
of  nobles,  and  all  the  time  thereafter  at  the  pucelle." 

Jacques  and  Isabel  had  gone  to  Rheims,  to  see  the 
dauphin  crowned  and  to  bring  home  their  children. 
They  had  been  absent  more  than  a  week.  The  cure 
and  Jacquemine  and  Durand  Laxart  went  with  them, 
but  Mengette  felt  quietly  sure  they  would  not  return 
with  Jehannette  in  their  company;  and  if  not  with 
Jehannette,  neither  with  Pierre.  She  endured  vicari- 
ous pangs  for  her  dear  playmate  uprooted  from  home, 
though  how  much  worse  it  would  be  for  Jehannette 
to  come  home  and  find  Domremy  so  changed ! 

The  cure  and  Jacques  being  both  without  horses, 
Durand  Laxart  took  the  priest  in  his  cart,  while 
Jacques  had  been  obliged  to  borrow  the  Widow 
Davide's  beast,  which  was  grudgingly  lent,  though 
she  would  receive  for  the  loan  a  measure  of  wine  at 
the  vintage.  The  journey  from  Domremy  to  Rheims 
was  over  sunny  country,  where  the  mud  of  spring  was 
long  dried  up.  But  Jacques  d'Arc  was  going  to  see 
a  glorified  daughter,  and  the  Widow  Davide  did  not 
know  where  her  Haumette  was.  Human  bitterness 
grew  in  the  woman  at  such  raising  up  and  pulling 
down.  Mengette  knew  the  Widow  Davide's  tongue 
began  to  work  the  very  day  Jean  Morel  and  Gerardin 
d'fipinal  brought  their  wonderful  story.  She  was 
cross  in  her  wine-shop  when  Domremy  rang  its  church 
bell,  and  crosser  when  Greux,  though  Burgundian  in 
its  preferences,  rang  also  for  the  maid  of  Lorraine. 


182  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

A  rider  spurred  up  the  long  ascent  to  Bury-la-C6te ; 
and  there  Durand  Laxart  danced  wildly  in  the  street, 
and  Bury-la-C6te  rang  its  bell  also.  Thus  from  town 
to  town  up  the  Meuse  valley  sped  news  of  the  maid ; 
and  from  Domremy  to  Vaucouleurs,  where  the  people 
made  a  public  procession  of  thanks,  the  bells,  through 
which  she  heard  her  voices  best,— the  bells  which  were 
like  her  own  pealing  cry,— rang  her  victories. 

As  soon  as  the  priest,  excused  from  his  offices,  and 
Jacques  and  Isabel  were  on  the  road  to  Rheims,  jeal- 
ousy of  the  D'Arc  family  spread  over  Domremy  like 
fog  from  the  river.  Its  sinuous  twistings  were  in 
every  house,  and  Mengette  saw  the  women  turn  their 
heads  when  she  went  toward  Greux  with  her  geese, 
instead  of  giving  her  a  "  good  day."  The  pucelle's 
closed,  shed-shaped  home  seemed  to  rouse  antagonism. 
Mengette  saw  her  neighbors  pointing  at  it  and  laugh- 
ing. They  had  once  talked  about  Jehannette's  visions, 
and  all  knew  her  long  waiting  and  sorrow.  Did  it 
amuse  them  that  she  had  burst  from  her  years  of 
preparation  into  swift,  miraculous  action,  gaining  for 
the  French  five  great  battles  in  two  weeks,  and  lead- 
ing the  dauphin  in  victorious  progress  through  a  hos- 
tile country  to  his  coronation  ?  Mengette  had  no  envy, 
and  did  not  understand  that  the  pucelle's  sudden  rise 
before  all  Christendom  might  affect  her  neighbors  like 
their  own  downfall. 

The  wine-shop  door  was  shut  in  Choux's  face,  his 
cronies  sitting  with  the  cool  garden  under  their  eyes 
at  the  back  of  the  house.  Unused  to  being  banished 
from  the  wine-shop  without  having  his  ear  pinched, 
Choux  waited  in  the  street,  hunched  on  the  stone  coping 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  183 

which  surrounded  the  manure-heap ;  and  the  Widow 
Davide  came  out,  and  denounced  him  openly  as  a 
sorcerer  with  a  voice  from  the  devil,  a  consorter  with 
people  who  did  things  by  witchcraft.  His  own  foul- 
ness made  more  wholesome  by  the  stable  odor  in  which 
he  sat,  he  thrust  his  face  at  her,  and  called  boldly  on 
Valentin  to  torment  her  at  night,  which  sent  the 
Widow  Davide  clattering  into  the  church  for  holy 
water  and  a  cautious  prayer  or  two  against  the  evil 
eye. 

Choux's  face  projected  more  and  more  like  a  beast's 
in  front  of  his  ears.  Mengette's  abhorrence  of  him  in 
ebb  and  flow  tossed  her  clean  virgin  spirit,  but  she 
held  on  to  duty,  and  made  regular  confession  of  it. 
Father  Fronte  laid  no  penance  on  her,  even  when  she 
owned  to  wondering  if  Choux  would  never  die ;  for 
when  his  hissing  grew  unendurable,  the  old  order  of 
things  lost  their  charm,  and  she  reached  the  state  of 
constantly  desiring  to  have  him  under  ground,  tied  in 
his  last  clean  cap  and  deaf  to  voices.  After  Isabel's 
reproof  he  and  Valentin  had  shrieked  no  more  aloud, 
but  they  took  to  whispering;  and  Mengette's  skin 
prickled  all  over  when  she  heard  them  filling  darkness 
with  fierce  sibilations,  like  a  pair  of  colossal  ganders. 
She  knew  there  was  a  Valentin,  though  Isabel  had 
scarcely  believed  in  his  existence  and  soon  forgot  him. 
Nightly,  month  after  month,  his  invisible  company  op- 
pressed the  house  and  gave  it  an  uncanny  name.  The 
priest  privately  exorcised  him,  and  punished  Choux 
by  withdrawing  the  church's  consolations  for  a  time ; 
but  that  old  sinner  no  longer  cared  for  the  bon  Dieu. 
Father  Fronte  began  to  regard  him  as  a  poor  idiot, 


184  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

the  sport  of  fiends,  more  to  be  pitied  and  endured  than 
corrected. 

Jacquemine  now  had  much  of  Pierre's  work  to  do, 
and  sulked  continually,  being  far  from  strong;  and 
when  Mengette  gladly  helped  him,  he  could  talk  of 
nothing  but  his  troubles.  Yet,  in  spite  of  these  things, 
Mengette  never  came  on  a  day  when  she  did  not  live 
with  zest.  The  July  afternoon  put  Domremy  out  of 
her  head.  Creamy  air,  smooth  and  soft  upon  the 
cheeks,  strewed  wisps  of  gray  or  opal  color  against 
green  hills.  The  Meuse  was  nearly  hid  in  bushes.  She 
could  see  Jean  Morel  and  Gerardin  d'fipinal  at  work  in 
their  vineyards  below  the  oak  woods.  These  travelers, 
who  had  gone  as  far  as  fifteen  leagues  to  Chalons, 
were  behind  in  tying  up  the  vines ;  but  they  worked 
with  the  stir  of  the  world  in  their  blood.  They  knew 
the  vintage  was  going  to  be  good,  and  declared  the 
last  Burgundian  riders  had  trampled  the  march  of 
Lorraine.  As  for  that  wicked  Queen  Isabel,  she  now 
sat  in  Paris  quaking  from  morning  till  night,  though 
the  sun  was  there  so  hot  that  dunghills  reeked ;  and 
what  would  she  do  when  her  crowned  son  turned  from 
Rheims  to  march  with  the  pucelle  on  Paris  I 

A  skylark  rose  from  a  wide  level  between  the  flocks 
of  geese,  wheeling  and  singing,  sweet  and  lilting,  until 
he  was  out  of  sight,  though  his  voice  seemed  as  near 
as  ever.  Mengette  stood  with  her  face  turned  upward, 
searching  for  his  dot  of  body  against  dazzling  light ; 
motes  swam  before  her  eyes  in  the  upper  air ;  then  the 
lark  appeared,  wheeling  downward.  His  rejoicing  did 
not  cease  an  instant.  When  higher  than  a  hundred 
feet,  he  dropped  like  a  stone,  head  downward,  de- 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  185 

scribed  one  more  circle,  and  alighted  in  the  grass.  All 
the  time  his  singing  was  so  joyful  that  it  made  Men- 
gette  laugh.  He  did  not  mind  her  near  approach,  but 
was  up  again,  for  pure  gladness,  and  out  of  sight 
again,  his  voice  bubbling  in  every  direction  over  the 
sky ;  then  down  he  wheeled  and  dropped,  circled  once 
more,  and  hid  himself  in  the  grass.  So  he  kept  it  up 
until  the  sun  was  almost  gone.  Mengette's  neck  ached 
with  supporting  her  back-tilted  head  while  he  was 
aloft,  and  her  lips  were  stretched  with  the  laughter 
of  delight.  She  loved  him,  and  had  loved  his  fathers 
before  him  all  her  summers.  Her  dazzled  eyes  could 
hardly  see  the  stony  land  mottled  with  specks  of 
white. 

Therefore  when  an  outcry  broke  from  Domremy 
street,  in  front  of  the  church,  she  looked  down  the 
long  hill  shoulder,  blind  to  its  cause.  Her  own  house 
and  the  garden  behind  it,  crowded  with  growing  things, 
were  a  blur  till  her  eyes  were  fitted  to  the  lower  light. 
The  black  wheat,  or  buckwheat,  which  made  her  winter 
bread,  was  all  in  flower,  a  gray  smear  within  the  wall. 

Mengette  could  hear  Choux  screaming  her  name, 
and  her  first  startled  thought  was  that  the  devil  might 
be  carrying  him  off.  She  felt  her  whole  body  blanch 
with  fright.  Then  she  began  to  see  people  running, 
and  a  man  and  a  woman  dragging  Choux  by  the 
shoulders,  his  hump  and  heels  scraping  the  ground. 
Domremy  had  risen  against  sorcery. 

It  was  a  sin,  but  Mengette's  next  thought  was  fear 
that  the  two  flocks  of  geese  might  mix  or  stray  or 
damage  vines  if  she  left  them,  so  strong  is  the  hold 
of  small  cares  on  poverty.  But  compassion,  unready 


186  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

in  her  brain,  was  swifter  in  her  muscles.  Directly 
another  flying  figure  added  itself  to  the  village  mob. 
Mengette,  breathless,  dragged  at  Choux  to  liberate  him 
from  the  mob's  hands.  Her  neighbors,  who  knelt  in 
church  with  her,  were  like  wild  beasts. 

"  Let  go  this  sorcerer !  "  screamed  Widow  Davide ; 
"  we  have  had  enough  of  voices  and  visions  and  witch- 
craft. Let  them  believe  who  will  that  Jehannette 
d'Arc  doth  her  great  miracles  of  siege-raising  by  the 
help  of  the  saints.  We  know  this  old  beast  hath  long 
communicated  with  devils.  He  ought  to  be  burned ; 
but  fagots  are  too  good  to  waste  on  him— we  will 
drown  him  in  the  Meuse." 

Mengette  put  herself  in  front  of  Choux,  who  shrilled 
like  a  chicken  with  something  in  its  neck.  This  spas- 
modic shriek,  and  his  odor,  and  his  prehensile,  suck- 
ing grip,  from  which  there  was  no  escape,  made  her 
turn  faint.  With  the  ferocious  self-preservation  of 
age,  he  held  her  before  him ;  and  she  felt  his  thumbs, 
which  curved  sharply  backward  with  a  claw  at  the  end, 
sink  their  joints  into  her  hips.  His  thick,  bestial  lower 
lip  blubbered  first  at  one  side  of  her  waist  and  then 
at  the  other,  as  he  watched  his  antagonists.  Mengette 
trembled. 

"  You  have  never  been  well  liked  yourself  for  har- 
boring the  old  wretch,"  warned  the  Widow  Davide's 
nephew,  who  had  helped  drag  Choux. 

"  It  matters  not,"  answered  Mengette. 

"  People  despise  you,"  declared  the  Widow  Davide, 
hands  on  hips,  and  nose  thrust  into  the  maid's  ghastly 
face. 

"  It  matters  not,"  answered  Mengette. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  187 

"Let  us  have  him,  or  we  will  throw  you  into  the 
river  with  him." 

"  It  matters  not,"  answered  Mengette,  her  tongue 
bound  to  one  phrase;  for  she  could  not  argue  with 
them,  or  threaten  them  with  the  cure,  or  think  of  any 
good  thing  which  might  turn  their  minds.  And  there 
was  old  Simone  of  Greux,  who  could  barely  totter 
on  two  canes,  licking  his  sunken  mouth  with  fierce 
desire  to  slay,  and  shrilling,  "Put  them  both  in  the 
Meuse ! " 

And  there  were  the  children  who  loved  to  stroke 
Mengette's  milk-white  gander,  staring  at  her  as  at  a 
cursed  thing.  She  had  early  learned  what  is  so  hard 
for  the  young  to  learn,  that  many  things  must  be  en- 
dured alone.  But  there  is  no  loneliness  like  isolation 
as  the  protector  of  an  abhorrent  object.  Some  of  the 
excited  villagers  drew  back,  touched  to  their  souls  by 
her  hunted  eyes.  The  rest,  provoked  by  resistance,  with 
frenzied  clamor  dragged  both  Mengette  and  Choux 
to  the  deep  washing-pool. 

Choux's  throat  closed  to  sound,  and  his  face  ex- 
tended long  and  horse-like  in  front  of  his  ears.  Men- 
gette could  see  it,  though  his  hold  on  her  back  was 
not  broken,  as  she  struggled  against  the  hands  of  her 
executioners  until  her  petticoat  and  bodice  were  torn 
to  shreds.  Her  lithe  body  twisting  and  her  arms  beat- 
ing in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  were  seen  by  Jean  Morel 
and  Gerardin  d'fipinal  in  their  vineyards.  They  ran 
shouting  at  the  top  of  their  voices. 

Men  who  had  been  farther  than  Chalons  might  not 
have  prevailed  at  that  time  to  stop  unjust  violence, 
but  two  dreadful  things  helped  them— the  sight  of  a 


188  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

maid's  naked,  scratched  arms  and  breast  and  dropping 
petticoat,  and  news  from  Greux  that  the  priest  had 
already  passed  Bermont  chapel  on  the  Bury-la-C6te 
road  which  led  from  Rheims. 

The  crowd  fell  apart.  Every  woman  was  ready  to 
cover  poor  Mengette  and  take  her  home.  They  began 
to  blame  one  another,  and  those  who  had  only  stood 
and  looked  on  went  into  their  houses  with  a  virtuous 
air,  determined  that  the  priest  should  know  they  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  Choux  and  sorcery  were  for- 
gotten. They  all  wished  to  be  standing  by  their  doors, 
or  driving  in  the  cows,  or  to  be  bringing  great  inno- 
cent panniers  of  lucerne  on  their  backs,  or  gathering 
home  the  children  and  the  geese,  when  they  welcomed 
the  priest  as  he  returned  along  Domremy  street. 

But  before  the  angelus  rang,  nearly  every  soul, 
warned  out  by  Father  Fronte's  command,  gathered  in 
the  church.  Choux  was  not  there.  He  crouched  in 
his  chamber ;  and  Valentin  was  not  heard  to  whisper 
all  that  night.  Mengette  was  not  there.  She  lay  in 
her  cupboard  bed,  and  though  it  was  July,  the  serge- 
covered  down  sack  lay  over  her  feet,  for  twilight 
brought  in  the  coolness  of  the  hills.  Isabel  Romee  sat 
beside  her,  too  exalted  to  feel  that  bitterness  against 
her  neighbors  for  their  behavior  which  she  must  have 
felt  if  she  had  not  been  to  Rheims. 

But  Jacques  and  Jacquemine  were  in  the  dark 
church,  where  almost  invisible  sinners  cowered  on  the 
prayer-benches.  The  terrors  of  that  religion  whose 
rights  of  trial  and  punishment  they  had  usurped  hung 
over  a  pastoral  people  unused  to  public  ferment.  The 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  189 

Widow  Davide  knelt  on  the  stone  floor ;  she  was  often 
mourning  her  daughter  there,  and  sank  lower  and 
lower  in  a  contrite  heap. 

Two  candles  only  lighted  the  altar.  The  cure  came 
out  of  the  sacristy,  and  taking  one  of  them,  ascended 
a  pulpit  near  the  center  of  the  church,  and  set  it  on 
the  reading-desk  before  him.  White  groins  and  arches 
were  half  discernible  overhead.  In  one  transept  was 
an  image  of  St.  Catherine,  and  there  Jehannette  d'Arc 
used  to  pray.  The  priest  led  his  people  through  a 
short  benediction  service,  and  then  he  said: 

"  I  have  heard  all  that  you  attempted  to  do  this  day 
to  Choux,  who  is  a  sinner,  and  to  Mengette,  who  would 
have  perished  a  martyr.  And  why  were  you  moved 
to  it  ?  I  know  your  hearts,  full  of  jealousy  and  envy. 
You  were  not  mad  against  sorcery:  you  were  mad 
against  royal  favor  that  hath  not  been  shown  to  you. 
None  of  you  have  complained  of  any  damage  done  to 
you  by  Choux ;  but  when  my  back  is  turned  you  rise 
up  to  put  him  to  death,  and  shamefully  misuse  an  in- 
nocent maid,  because  of  your  spite  and  malice." 

The  church  was  very  still.  Jacquemine,  in  his  place, 
felt  fierce  to  punish  these  peasants  who  had  not  been 
to  Rheims. 

"  I  have  been  to  Rheims,"  said  Father  Fronte.  "  I 
have  seen  our  dauphin  crowned  a  king;  I  have  seen 
the  pucelle,  who  grew  up  among  us  with  holy  visions 
in  this  valley,  where  some  of  you  run  to  violence,  stand 
before  her  sovereign  to  be  questioned  what  she  desired 
for  all  her  services.  She  asked  but  one  thing :  '  Take 
the  tax  forever  off  Domremy  and  Greux.'  The  king 


190  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

takes  the  burden  of  tax  off  Domremy  and  Greux. 
Your  priest  and  Jacques  d'Arc  bring  you  the  news. 
I  have  no  more  to  say.  Go  home." 

The  congregation  did  not  stir.  Father  Fronte  also 
stood  still  in  the  little  circle  of  candle-light.  He  could 
hear  their  labored  breath.  They  all,  like  one  great 
sorrowful  child,  burst  into  weeping,  and  wept  aloud. 


XI 


SABEL  could  hear  that  contrite  noise  in 
the  church  through  Mengette's  open  door 
and  windows.  Both  women  understood 
it,  but  they  continued  their  talk  about 
Bheims.  Isabel  had  brought  home  all  the  geese  from 
the  uplands,  and  given  evening  bread  and  drink  to 
this  prostrate  family  as  well  as  her  own.  The  hill 
twilight  of  home  filled  her  heart  to  the  brim.  Men- 
gette's  slight  outline  was  stretched  in  exhaustion 
under  the  down  sack,  which  she  drew  to  her  armpits 
as  the  air  grew  cooler,  her  face  shining  white  above  it. 
The  pot-hanger  dangling  from  the  back  of  her  fireless 
chimney  was  lost  in  the  dark,  and  both  door  and  win- 
dows framed  nothingness.  She  forgot  her  trouble  in 
the  splendor  of  a  realized  vision,  which  Isabel  could 
not  keep  from  painting  on  the  Domremy  night. 

"So  all  hath  been  fulfilled.  While  we  spun  or 
sewed  or  worked  in  the  vineyards,  the  months  have 
changed  Jehannette  like  many  years.  At  first  I  did 
not  know  her  in  her  armor.  We  all  stood  to  see  the 
king  and  his  troops  enter  Rheims  on  Saturday  even- 
ing, for  he  received  his  worthy  anointing  on  Sunday ; 

191 


192  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

and  there  was  my  child  riding  at  his  side  with  a  white 
banner,  so  glorious  a  creature,  the  people  so  adoring 
her  with  cries  and  weeping,  that  I  hid  my  face  against 
a  wall,  and  shook  with  a  kind  of  palsy,  and  saw  not 
her  brother ;  he  rode  behind  her.  But  when  she  came 
flying  to  the  inn  where  we  slept, — for  she  was  lodged 
with  the  king's  company  at  the  archbishop's  chateau, 
—and  with  her  head  bare  cast  herself  into  our  arms, 
Jacques  fainted  down  upon  the  floor.  She  kissed  him 
and  tended  him.  I  could  see  she  was  our  same  Jehan- 
nette.  She  inquired  for  you,  and  named  everybody  in 
Domremy.  Her  heart  was  set  on  coming  home  with 
us,  since  her  task  was  fulfilled  at  Rheims;  but  the 
king  and  all  the  army  held  to  her  with  pleadings,  and 
reproached  her  for  desiring  to  turn  back  while  the 
English  are  still  in  France." 

"  And  Pierrelo,  also— he  was  well  ? "  put  in  Mengette. 

"Well  and  ruddy,  and  all  a  soldier.  Pierrelo  hath 
become  wasteful,  living  among  nobles ;  but  he  paid 
into  Jacques's  hand  the  money  which  our  horse  brought 
in  Tours,  and  more  besides,  from  spoils  and  ransoms 
of  the  English.  Jehannette  will  not  take  either  spoils 
or  ransoms,  or  money  from  the  king,  except  to  pay 
her  household.  The  king  would  have  given  honors 
to  both  Jacques  and  Durand  Laxart ;  but  they  would 
have  nothing,  so  he  made  our  Jacquemine  bailiff  of 
Vaucouleurs.  Messire  de  Baudricourt  hath  joined  the 
army  with  his  retinue,  and  he  and  Durand  were  made 
to  teD.  over  and  again  the  story  of  her  setting  out  for 
France.  Durand  Laxart  boasted  a  thousand  times, 
1  And  I  carried  her  to  Vaucouleurs ! '  wandering  around 
the  fair  streets,  beside  himself  and  laughing  aloud. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC  193 

Jehannette  gave  him  her  old  bodice  and  petticoat  that 
she  hath  carried  with  her  on  all  her  journeys,  having 
no  longer  hope  of  wearing  them  again.  And  he  sat 
with  the  things  across  his  knees,  and  looked  at  her  in 
her  mail,  the  tears  running  down  his  face,  the  king 
himself  having  said  that  no  man  had  done  more  for 
France  than  Durand  Laxart. 

"  The  king  hath  a  pleasing,  fair  presence,  and  he  is 
but  four  years  older  than  Jacquemine.  He  kept  his 
vigil  in  the  cathedral  all  Saturday  night,  as  the  custom 
hath  ever  been  on  a  sovereign's  last  night  before  cor- 
onation ;  and  outside  in  the  great  square  were  crowds 
rejoicing.  All  night  long,  also,  the  workmen  hung 
banners  and  tapestries  and  cloth  of  gold,  and  there 
were  chimes  like  thousands  of  bells  ringing  together." 

"Does  that  great  cathedral  where  the  kings  are 
crowned  seem  to  be  more  than  a  church  ? " 

"  Outwardly  it  is  like  a  carven  cliff  of  stone,  and 
took  my  breath  from  my  throat  at  the  first  sight. 
Within,  when  a  few  voices  chant,  the  sound  swells 
until  an  army  seems  chanting ;  but  when  an  army  doth 
chant,  the  mighty  rolling  volume  is  like  nothing  I  shall 
hear  again  on  this  earth.  Also,  there  were  wheels  in 
wheels  of  tinted  light  shedding  glory.  The  pillars 
are  set  up  as  they  would  support  the  sky,  and  all  our 
family  could  sit  on  the  base  of  one.  Besides  these 
seats  around  the  pillars,  three  rows  of  stone  benches  are 
formed  by  the  rise  of  the  walls  above  the  pavement. 

"  Then  there  was  the  procession  of  the  Sainte  Am- 
poule containing  the  holy  oil,  which  an  angel  brought 
from  heaven  for  anointing  our  kings.  Priests  carried 
it  under  a  canopy— a  little  round  flask  the  size  of  my 

13 


194  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

thumb,  but  larger  about  the  bottom  and  shoulders, 
and  smaller  about  the  middle  and  top,  all  crusted  with 
red  and  green  gems,  with  a  stopper  of  gold.  Out  of 
this  did  the  archbishop  anoint  the  king  on  his  head, 
his  shoulders,  within  the  joints  of  his  arms  and  the 
palms  of  his  hands,  slits  being  cut  and  embroidered 
in  his  robe  to  this  use.  It  was  all  done  according  to 
ancient  custom.  And  then  did  two  nobles  lift  the 
crowned  king  in  his  chair,  and  show  him  to  the  people. 
He  was  proclaimed,  and  chimes  and  voices  and  music 
of  instruments  rolled  in  the  arches ;  and  I,  being  with 
Jacques  within  the  choir,  could  see  my  child  stand  on 
the  lowest  step  of  the  high  altar  with  her  banner.  Oh, 
Mengette,  I  am  the  happiest  woman  in  France,  what- 
ever comes  of  all  this,  for  it  is  clear  I  am  the  mother 
of  a  deliverer ;  but  it  was  at  first  hard  for  me  to  believe 
that  St.  Michael  stooped  to  our  garden,  and  St.  Cath- 
erine and  St.  Margaret  continually  instructed  her." 

"  You  believe  it  now,  godmother  ? " 

"  Have  I  not  seen  with  my  own  eyes  the  things  re- 
sulting therefrom  ?  They  are  more  wonderful  to  me 
than  the  coming  of  saints." 

Before  next  dawn  Mengette  was  crossing  the  moist, 
dark  lane  to  milk  her  godmother's  cows,  knowing  that 
Isabel  would  be  weary  from  the  journey.  It  was  not 
light  enough  to  see  artichokes  standing  stiff  like  huge 
green  dahlias  in  the  village  gardens,  or  even  to  dis- 
tinguish poppies  thick  in  little  squares  of  wheat,  their 
crimson  heads  embroidering  the  yellow  mass ;  but  all 
hidden  sweetness  was  on  the  air,  and  the  smell  of  the 
yellow  linden  flowers  was  a  complete  delight.  Thus 
the  sleeping  Domremy,  the  dew-reeking,  half-seen, 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC  195 

natural  Domremy,  made  up  to  Mengette  for  the  cruelty 
of  its  inhabitants.  She  did  not  wish  to  meet  a  living 
soul,  and  was  seeking  her  work  in  the  end  of  the  night 
to  avoid  the  earliest  risers;  for  Mengette  had  wild 
instincts,  and  felt  the  scratches  on  her  outraged  breast 
branding  her  with  disgrace.  That  her  neighbors  had 
been  called  to  public  rebuke  and  public  repentance 
made  no  difference  to  her.  She  hated  no  one,  but  she 
desired  to  make  a  retreat  from  the  world,  and  it  was 
fortunate  that  Gerardin  d'Epinal  had  hired  her  to 
work  in  his  vineyard  that  day. 

The  D'Ai'c  house  was  not  built  to  shelter  its  own 
cattle,  like  other  cottages,  but  had  a  thatched  stone 
stable  beyond  its  garden.  Oxen  and  cows,  brought 
carefully  in  to  repose  for  the  night  under  shelter, 
sighed  their  content  in  the  darkness;  and  Mengette, 
as  she  entered,  made  haste  to  say,  "God  and  St. 
Bridget  bless  you !  "  so  the  cows  would  not  kick  over 
the  milk. 

She  shivered  with  the  lonesome  chilliness  of  early 
morning ;  but  at  mid-forenoon  the  warm  land  glowed 
about  her,  a  fervid  breath  rising  from  the  earth. 
When  Mengette  had  employment,  her  geese  were 
obliged  to  remain  shut  up  in  their  own  end  of  the 
house,  quavering  as  if  their  nostril-holes  scented  the  de- 
licious summer  landscape  outside ;  for  Choux  avoided 
that  common  employment  of  old  people  and  children, 
and  would  not  lead  a  goose  out  to  graze. 

When  all  laborers  paused  for  the  mid-forenoon  meal, 
Jacquemine  d'Arc  came  among  the  low  vines  search- 
ing for  Mengette.  She  did  not  stand  up  until  he  de- 
tected her  bare  head  above  her  strange  clothes ;  for, 


196  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

her  every-day  wear  being  shredded  to  rags,  she  was 
obliged  to  fall  back  on  her  mother's  chest. 

Jacquemine  was  in  his  best,  and  he  chose  his  way 
like  a  magistrate,  so  that  Gerardin  d'Epinal  at  the 
other  side  of  the  vineyard,  whose  experience  as  a 
traveler  was  considerable,  might  feel  his  new  dignity. 
Gerardin  chuckled  in  his  piece  of  loaf  as  he  crunched 
it  with  hard  teeth,  and  silently  prophesied  about  the 
people  of  Vaucouleurs,  and  their  submission  to  a  bailiff 
like  Jacquemine  d'Arc.  "  He  will  go  in  with  a  strut 
and  a  bellow,  like  a  little  bull  of  the  Vosges,"  laughed 
Gerardin;  "and  come  out  over  the  wall,  tossed  by 
bigger  horns  than  his  own.  Bertrand  de  Poulengy  is 
of  no  greater  stature  than  Jacquemine,  yet  he  doth  fill 
the  eye  like  a  man,  while  this  creature  might  as  well 
be  a  bush,  so  little  regard  have  people  to  his  humors. 
Doubtless  the  king  laughed  in  his  royal  sleeve  at  his 
new  bailiff;  but  Vaucouleurs  will  count  it  an  un- 
gracious return  for  sending  him  the  pueelle." 

Some  regret  for  the  hard-working  maid  who  was 
bound  by  contract  to  Jacquemine  also  glanced  through 
the  peasant's  mind.  "  She  could  make  a  better  mar- 
riage," he  reflected,  "  particularly  now,  while  such  in- 
dignation is  felt  for  her ;  but  even  the  pucelle  cannot 
turn  this  poor  brother  into  a  husband  to  be  desired 
of  any  maid." 

"I  am  going  to  Vaucouleurs,"  was  Jacquemine's 
greeting. 

Mengette  remembered  when  his  father  had  spoken 
the  same  words,  and  he  had  afterward  accused  Jehan- 
nette  of  disgracing  the  family.  She  looked  up  quickly 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC  197 

from  the  knife  and  lump  of  bread  in  her  hands,  and 
he  was  shrewd  to  perceive  her  thoughts. 

"  Because  the  king  made  me  bailiff  of  Vaucouleurs 
when  I  was  in  Rheims,"  he  said,  coloring  helplessly, 
"  I  did  not  on  that  account  stint  speaking  the  truth 
to  my  sister.  I  told  her  plainly  the  people  here  in 
Domremy  said  she  raised  sieges  by  witchcraft." 

Mengette's  sunburnt  cheeks  whitened,  and  she  looked 
down.  She  had  no  spirit  left.  His  words  did  not 
dispraise  the  people  of  Domremy,  but  she  blamed  him 
little ;  he  was  himself  happy.  The  elfish  naughtiness 
of  this  lad  whom  she  had  helped  to  rear,  his  spites 
and  frank  self-love  and  jealousies,  had  always  touched 
her  pity ;  but  the  shock  which  her  traditions  had  re- 
ceived unsettled  her  even  toward  Jacquemine.  She 
wished  she  had  hid  herself  at  Bermont  spring  instead 
of  coming  to  work  in  the  vineyard. 

"  Will  you  stay  in  Vaucouleurs  ? " 

"  I  shall  live  there.  A  bailiff  is  not  like  a  captain 
of  a  town,  who  may  live  where  he  pleases ;  but  he  must 
set  up  his  house  among  the  people  he  governs.  I  am 
no  fool,"  said  Jacquemine,  with  a  twist  of  his  foxy 
head.  "This  great  ha-hu  of  Jehannette's  may  not 
last.  My  brother  Jean  will  get  wind  of  it  at  Vauthon, 
and  his  wife's  family  will  urge  him  to  make  his  profit 
out  of  it ;  but  I  am  the  eldest,  and  the  first  honor  is  by 
right  offered  to  me.  Bailiffs  are  not  bailiffs  merely  to 
amuse  themselves.  I  intend  to  squeeze  Vaucouleurs." 

"  What  was  done  for  Pierrelo  ? " 

"  Oh— Pierre— he  hath  everything  like  a  great  noble. 
You  should  see  him  caracole  on  a  horse.  And  he 


198  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

hath  put  on  clothes  and  armor  that  swell  his  person 
to  increased  bigness.  *  La !  I  am  the  brother  of  the 
pucelle !  '—that  is  all  his  thought.  Doubtless  he  told 
the  dukes  and  captains  she  had  no  elder  brother,  for 
they  knew  nothing  about  me." 

"  I  would  I  could  see  him  and  Jehannette." 

Jacquemine's  sandy  eyebrows  drew  together  with 
resentment. 

"  It  is  plain  you  are  not  glad  to  see  me,  and  Durand 
Laxart's  horse  stands  saddled  ready  for  me  while  I 
climb  up  hither  to  set  a  day  for  our  marriage.  The 
bailiff  of  Vaucouleurs  can  marry  when  he  pleases. 
We  are  no  longer  obliged  to  wait  until  Choux's 
death." 

To  Mengette,  whose  world  was  scarcely  a  league 
square,  such  a  translation  to  new  spheres  was  blinding. 

"  Oh,  Jacquemine,"  she  cried  out  with  a  rush  of  joy, 
"  I  now  want  to  leave  Domremy." 

"It  is  soon  arranged.  There  is  Henri  Royer  in 
Vaucouleurs,  who  is  well  disposed  toward  us,  and  will 
help  me  to  seek  a  suitable  house.  A  bailiff  is  not  to 
be  lodged  as  common  peasants  lodge.  I  saw  in  Kheims 
in  what  excellent  regard  the  citizens  of  the  three  es- 
tates are  held.  There  are  in  this  realm  three  ranks 
called  the  three  estates,  Mengette— the  clergy,  the 
barons  and  knights,  and  the  citizens." 

"  But  what  will  your  father  do  for  help  in  his  fields  ? " 

"  He  will  be  obliged  to  hire  a  laborer.  When  he 
loses  me  he  will  lose  a  son  indeed ;  but  both  my  father 
and  mother  have  spoken  of  the  marriage.  They  see 
it  will  be  necessary,  and  I  have  remained  the  last  of 
their  children." 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC  199 

"  How  will  Choux  be  received  in  Vaucouleurs,  Jac- 
quemine  ? " 

"  Choux  will  stay  where  he  is.  He  can  still  sleep  in 
your  house,  and  my  mother  can  feed  him." 

Mengette  thought  about  it.  The  lifting  of  her  life- 
long burden  brought  a  deep  breath  of  relief  from  her 
bosom;  but  the  old  custom,  the  old  discomfort,  the 
old  duty,  which  her  father  had  told  her  death  alone 
could  free  her  from,  were  drawn  back  with  her  next 
inhalation. 

"  No ;  I  must  not  throw  the  care  of  him  upon  any 
one  else." 

"He  shall  not  go  to  Vaucouleurs— I  will  tell  you 
that." 

"  Then  I  must  stay  in  Domremy,  and  still  feed  and 
shelter  him." 

"  Do  you  love  old  Choux  ? " 

Mengette  covered  her  face  with  one  arm,  and  shud- 
dered. 

"Why,  then,  do  you  hold  by  him?" 

Her  eyes,  as  she  opposed  her  lover,  took  again  the 
hunted  look. 

"  There  is  a  pitying,  Jacquemine,  which  is  like  reli- 
gion. I  cannot  disregard  it ;  happiness  would  turn  to 
a  curse." 

"  Do  you  choose  to  stay  here  with  him,  working  in 
the  fields,  rather  than  to  go  with  me  1 " 

"  I  cannot  choose,  Jacquemine ;  it  was  all  settled 
without  my  choosing." 

He  flung  his  nervous  body  a  few  steps  from  her,  and 
looked  back.  "  Then  it  is  adieu  between  us." 

"Jacquemine,  you  came  up  here  to  quarrel  with 


200  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

me.  You  scarce  gave  me  a  good  day  or  a  kiss  on  the 
cheek,  and  there  was  only  Gerardin,  who  knows  how 
long  we  have  been  betrothed.  You  were  not  like  this 
before  the  king  made  you  bailiff  of  Vaucouleurs ;  but 
it  is  true,  I  am  not  fit  for  your  wife." 

She  turned  to  her  work,  and  he  came  back.  They 
faced  each  other  for  more  words,  when  Choux  appeared, 
carrying  his  hump  less  lightly  than  before  its  bruising, 
to  take  his  share  of  the  forenoon  meal  from  his  feeder. 
The  stealthy  odor  of  him  crept  within  the  vine  fra- 
grance, and  Jacquemine  looked  at  him  over  one  shoul- 
der, and  gave  him  the  field. 

Mengette  yielded  her  knife  and  lump  of  bread  to 
the  old  creature.  The  chief  member  of  her  foster 
family,  the  one  through  whom  she  had  hoped  for  rel- 
atives and  happiness,  stalked  on  down  hill,  without 
again  looking  back,  to  claim  for  himself  dignities  and 
honors,  and  left  her  for  life  to  this  degraded  company. 
Choux  made  little  noises  of  satisfaction  over  his  food, 
grunts  and  smacks  of  the  palate,  bestial,  unlike  the 
honest  grinding  and  hearty  human  enjoyment  of  a 
peasant. 

Mengette  hid  herself  among  the  vines  as  far  as  she 
could  from  him,  and  knelt  there,  doubling  her  body 
forward,  and  weeping  upon  her  knees. 


XII 


OTON  DE  XANTRAILLES  is  love-lorn," 
said  La  Hire,  with  a  wink  at  his  friend's 
back;  for  the  tall  knight  mounted  and 
rode  off  to  St.  Denis  without  waiting  for 
him.  La  Hire's  own  courser  was  held  ready  by  a  page, 
but  he  lingered,  spreading  himself  and  his  cloak  upon  a 
chair,  and  holding  a  cup  in  his  fist  on  the  table  where 
he  had  been  drinking.  He  sat  before  the  door  of  his 
quarters  in  the  crowded  lane  of  La  Chapelle,  which 
was  then  a  small  faubourg  outside  the  ramparts  of 
Paris.  There  was  a  stretch  of  fields  to  the  city  walls 
on  the  southern  horizon. 

"Since  Poton  hath  been  appointed  governor  of 
Coucy  his  mind  runs  to  serious  things,— mass  and 
confession,— so  that  he  hath  no  longer  any  stomach 
for  good  company.  Take  warning  by  Poton,  Messire 
d'Arc,  and  let  thoughts  of  women  alone.  La  Hire 
never  looks  at  a  woman,"  said  the  old  sinner,  rolling 
his  eyes  behind  his  chair,  where  Pierre  could  see  a  red 
petticoat  half  concealed  by  his  wide  cloak. 

"What  have  we  in  La  Chapelle  or  St.  Denis  to 
make  a  man  love-lorn,  Messire  La  Hire  ? "  the  pucelle's 

201 


202  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

brother  asked,  laughing.  He  knew  well  whose  black 
eyes  snapped  near  the  knight's  broad  shoulder. 
Though  women  of  her  class  were  forbidden  the  camp, 
he  had  many  times  seen  Haumette  Davide,  gorgeous 
from  a  summer  among  Burgundians,  slip  about  be- 
hind his  sister's  back.  And  he  had  talked  with  her, 
half  in  contempt  and  half  in  pity,  loving  the  familiar 
sound  of  the  whistling  Domremy  "  oui,"  which  is  like 
"  whist ! " 

Pierre  sat  his  horse  with  drawn  rein  for  the  pastime 
of  enjoying  La  Hire's  embarrassment.  But  he  added 
in  seriousness : 

"  Messire  de  Xantrailles  is  only  cast  down  like  the 
rest  of  us  because  we  are  kept  idle  in  camp." 

The  knight  struck  the  table  until  his  wine-flask 
staggered. 

"  "We  ought  to  take  Paris  to-morrow.  By  my  baton, 
La  Hire  is  tired  of  this.  The  king  and  La  Tremouille 
have  sat  in  St.  Denis  a  week,  holding  the  piicelle  in 
leash,  bemoaning  the  expenses  of  an  army  they  keep 
idle ;  while  the  Duke  of  Bedford  in  Paris  laughs  at 
them,  having  a  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  livres 
tournois  a  month  to  his  revenue  drawn  from  France." 

In  his  excitement  La  Hire  raised  and  shook  his  arm, 
twitching  the  cloak  farther  off  Haumette.  Her  re- 
minder caused  his  face  to  fall  into  sudden  distortion, 
and  he  arranged  his  draperies  in  haste ;  but  in  serious 
conference  with  the  soldier  Pierre  forgot  to  be  amused 
by  the  bacchanal.  He  looked  through  a  passage  left 
between  houses  at  meadows  sweeping  away  to  the 
Seine,  which,  after  cleaving  Paris,  makes  a  bend  north- 
ward. He  could  not  see  the  distant  river,  but  all  the 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  203 

fields  were  spread  with  September  glory  of  pale-pink 
and  pale-blue  crocuses,  star-cloth,  a  prodigal  carpet 
for  mailed  feet  and  trundling  artillery  and  the  chafing 
of  coursers'  hoofs.  Pierre  could  smell,  above  the  barn- 
yard odors  of  this  stone  village  crowded  with  many 
horses,  a  piece  of  wild  mignonette  he  had  stuck  in  his 
corselet  because  it  reminded  him  of  Domremy.  There 
the  little  brownish-yellow  blossom  twinkled  all  sum- 
mer, overclothing  the  sward  in  every  direction. 

"  Messire  La  Hire,  is  La  Tremouille  part  English  ? " 

"  No ;  but  he  is  wholly  bad  French.  Hark  ye,  my 
lad,  who  was  Georges  La  Tremouille  before  the  king 
took  him  up  ?  Nothing  but  a  dependent  of  the  Due 
de  Richemont,  and  for  being  placed  at  court  by  that 
noble  he  hath  bred  enmity  betwixt  his  patron  and  the 
king.  He  had  a  sister  married  to  a  low  Scot  little 
better  than  a  stable-boy.  You  remember,"  cried  La 
Hire,  with  pleasure  in  bringing  the  facts  to  Pierre's 
own  experience,  "the  little  maid  that  embroidered  the 
pucelle's  standard  in  Tours  ?  " 

Pierre  did  remember  her,  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 
He  sat  his  horse,  helplessly  detected  in  a  feeling  which 
La  Hire  had  not  the  eyes  to  see. 

"  That  was  the  Scotchman's  daughter,  the  child  of 
La  Tremouille's  sister.  She  hath  been  left  on  his 
hands  by  the  Scotch  painter's  death  since  we  marched 
from  Rheims." 

"  Who  brought  news  of  the  Scotch  painter's  death, 
messire  ? " 

"A  messenger  from  the  queen  to  the  king,  that  I 
myself  saw  in  St.  Denis  yesterday.  His  name—" 

"  But  where  now  is  the  demoiselle  ? " 


204  THE  DAYS   OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

"  Oh,  she  is  with  her  grandmother  in  Loches ;  and 
the  favorite's  elder  sister,  De  Beuil's  wife,  hath  already 
stirred  herself  to  tie  the  young  calf  to  the  royal  crib. 
The  Scotch  demoiselle  is  now  our  queen's  new  maid 
of  honor.  Bring  in  all  nations,"  blustered  La  Hire. 
"France  is  meat  for  every  crow  on  earth.  By  my 
baton,  if  God  Almighty  came  down  to  France  in  these 
days,  he  would  turn  robber  like  the  rest !  " 

Pierre  felt  strong  need  to  slap  La  Hire's  red  face, 
where  unshaven  hairs  bristled  with  general  aggres- 
siveness ;  but  taking  up  the  glove  for  the  La  Tjemouille 
family  against  his  friend  was  such  madness  that  he 
put  himself  beyond  another  word  by  spurring  off  sud- 
denly for  St.  Denis.  Charles  had  appointed  a  council 
to  consider  an  attack  on  Paris,— the  king  was  not 
slack  in  holding  councils, — and  Pierre's  duty  was  to 
attend  the  pucelle. 

"It  is  time  La  Hire  himself  took  to  horse,"  declared 
the  knight,  in  a  flurry  of  haste,  bouncing  around  on 
his  chair.  "  Come  out  now,  minion ;  drink  your  wine, 
and  begone.  Do  you  want  to  give  a  godly  fellow  a 
bad  name  in  the  camp?  The  pucelle  herself  might 
ride  by  if  it  were  not  for  the  council  in  St.  Denis." 

"  What  care  I  for  the  pucelle  ? "  scoffed  Haumette, 
resuming  her  seat  on  the  table,  and  filling  the  cup  she 
had  carried  into  hiding.  "Did  I  not  know  her  in 
Domremy?  She  is  no  better  than  I  am.  Must  I  lie 
perdu  whenever  the  D'Arc  family  make  a  procession  ? 
No,  by  my  faith !  The  Davides  are  as  good  as  they  are." 

"  Ho !  "  cried  the  knight,  starting  up  and  seizing  her 
by  the  shoulders.  "  Down  again,  Haumette  !  Squat, 
toad !  —yonder  comes  the  pucelle." 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  205 

"  Let  her  squat  before  me,"  retorted  Haumette,  hold- 
ing stubbornly  to  the  table. 

"  But  it  is  the  pucelle." 

"  I  also,"  said  Haumette,  defiantly—"  I  am  a  pucelle 
of  Domremy.  There  be  two  of  us,  Messire  Broadback." 

La  Hire's  face  became  dinted  all  over,  as  if  every 
fat  pore  opened  its  mouth  in  consternation.  "Oh, 
get  thee  behind  me,  Sathan !  By  all  the  batons  in 
Christendom,  see  the  minion  flaunt ! " 

He  snatched  his  cloak  and  bolted  into  the  house 
out  of  sight.  Haumette  sprang  upon  the  table.  Her 
wide-featured,  snapping-eyed  beauty  took  on  unspeak- 
able insolence.  "Bring  here  the  horse,"  she  com- 
manded La  Hire's  page ;  and  not  being  hindered  by 
his  master,  he  led  it  to  the  table,  and  Haumette  be- 
strode it.  The  courser  reared,  but  the  page  still  held 
its  huge  iron  bit,  restraining  its  power,  while  she  with 
the  bridle  directed  its  course. 

Jeanne  came  riding  beside  the  king  from  the  direc- 
tion of  Paris,  where  they  had  been  inspecting  the 
ramparts,  with  a  small  escort.  Her  face  was  marked 
by  weariness  and  discouragement.  She  wore  instead 
of  her  helmet  a  hat  with  turned-up  brim  cut  in  battle- 
ments which  encircled  her  forehead  like  a  crown. 
Wind  and  sun  had  taken  away  some  of  her  whiteness, 
and  anguish  was  growing  in  the  hazel  eyes  from  royal 
inertia;  but  she  was  a  divine  sight,  which  men  re- 
membered, and  afterward  described  according  to  their 
diverse  spirits. 

The  triumphal,  march  of  that  glorious  summer 
which  had  given  back  to  their  king  Soissons,  Chateau- 
Thierry,  Compiegne,  and  many  another  town,  with 


206  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

wide  stretches  of  northern  country,  which  had  terrified 
the  Duke  of  Bedford  from  Paris  to  Normandy,  and 
back  again  to  Paris,  and  had  drained  new  levies  of 
men  from  England,  was  now  to  be  wholly  lost  or  wholly 
consummated  by  its  ending  at  Paris.  The  regent  had 
been  cautious  about  risking  decisive  battle,  but  Charles 
had  outdone  his  invaders,  so  that  English  and  French 
armies  only  touched  in  a  skirmish  near  Baron,  by 
Senlis.  "Paris,"  said  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  "is  the 
key  of  France."  And  Charles  seemed  loath  to  stretch 
out  his  hand  and  seize  the  key  of  his  realm.  He  could 
not  advantageously  use  what  was  in  loyalty  given  to 
him,  while  the  Regent  of  England,  in  order  to  carry 
on  war,  was  strong-handed  enough  to  lay  a  tax  even 
on  the  small  pay  of  his  soldiers. 

All  the  hopelessness  of  Jeanne's  colossal  task  took 
physical  shape  in  a  woman  of  the  camp  shocking 
against  her  with  an  ill-guided  and  struggling  courser. 
She  looked  up  from  her  saddle-bow  at  an  impudent 
face  defying  her  even  to  cleanse  the  troops.  Her  eye- 
brows drew  together,  her  nostrils  quivered,  her  hand 
brought  up  the  sword  of  Fierbois  like  a  flash,  and 
smote  it  flat  across  Haumette  Davide's  back.  The 
blade  parted  in  two.  One  piece  fell  under  the  feet  of 
La  Hire's  horse,  and  Jeanne  stared  silently  at  what 
remained  on  the  hilt  in  her  hand. 

"  By  my  faith !  "  said  Charles,  reddening  with  dis- 
pleasure, "  you  have  broken  the  sword  of  Fierbois  on  a 
camp-follower.  Are  there  no  cudgels  in  La  Chapelle  ? " 

She  heard  whispers  behind  her  and  outcries  in  the 
houses.  The  maid  had  broken  her  miraculous  sword ; 
it  was  a  bad  omen !  La  Hire's  page  picked  up  the 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  207 

fragment,  still  holding  the  snorting  courser  on  which 
Haumette  Davide  clung  and  cowered ;  and  Jeanne  tried 
to  fit  the  parts  together.  The  camp  armorer  came 
running,  but  he  shook  his  head  at  the  sight.  Those 
old  blades  which  could  be  bent  around  the  body— the 
making  of  them  was  a  lost  art,  and  the  mending  of 
them  was  an  art  yet  undiscovered. 

Jeanne  left  the  sword  in  his  hands  without  a  second 
look.  Her  eyes  dwelt  on  the  creature  she  had  struck. 
It  was  not  her  instant  recognition  or  piteous  repen- 
tance which  pierced  Haumette  Davide.  Nor  was  it 
her  blinding  greatness  that  made  the  depraved  one 
crouch  before  her.  It  was  some  nameless  power,  some 
revealing  of  light  from  another  world. 

When  Jeanne  d'Arc  had  passed  on,  Haumette 
slipped  from  the  horse  and  crept  to  a  secluded  place 
where  she  could  sit  on  one  of  the  cylindrical  stones 
bestowed  at  wall  sides  to  keep  wheels  from  chafing. 

"  I  wish  she  had  run  me  through  with  her  sword," 
said  Haumette ;  "  it  would  be  too  good  for  such  as  I 
am,  but  her  sword  would  not  be  hurt." 

Next  day  Paris  was  assaulted.  At  night  the  maid 
was  brought  by  a  rabble  of  troops  wounded  into  La 
Chapelle,  having  met  her  first  defeat.  It  was  like  a 
rout,  where  no  knight  could  collect  his  retinue,  and 
horses  clashed  harness  with  one  another  in  the  low 
evening  light  coming  across  level  plains.  The  young 
Due  d'Alenc.on  was  beside  her.  She  rode  with  her 
head  on  her  breast,  unconscious  that  one  mailed  foot 
occasionally  dripped  blood  through  the  clumsy  iron 
stirrup. 

Jeanne's  victories  had  been  culminations  of  effort. 


208  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ABC 

When  the  French  flagged  after  long  fighting,  and  their 
enemies  also  relaxed  effort,  then  the  spirit  seemed  to 
come  mightily  upon  her.  At  early  morning  assault 
was  made  on  the  Porte  St.  Honore,  and  lasted  until 
evening.  Straining  with  all  her  might,  Jeanne  yet 
waited  for  that  certain  sign  that  Paris  was  given  to 
her,  when  the  king  and  La  Tremouille  sounded  a  re- 
treat. It  was  then  twilight.  Jeanne,  without  heed- 
ing the  trumpet,  led  on  in  the  midst  of  din  and  crash. 
Two  knights,  being  sent  for  the  purpose,  seized  her 
and  forced  her  upon  her  horse.  "  En  nom  De,  we  are 
about  to  go  in,"  pleaded  the  struggling  pucelle.  But 
the  tide  of  retreat  had  set  out,  and  it  carried  her 
along. 

"  Take  this  not  to  heart,"  urged  D'Alenc.on,  leaning 
toward  her.  "We  will  try  Paris  on  another  side. 
What  do  you  think  of  the  bridge  of  boats  across  the 
Seine  at  St.  Denis  ?  You  shall  see  Paris  nearer  than 
you  have  yet  seen  it,  and  by  the  left  bank,  though  we 
ride  far  to  strike  where  a  stroke  is  least  expected." 

"  The  bridge  of  boats  was  well  planned ;  but,  fair 
duke,"  said  Jeanne,  throwing  up  her  vizor,  and  show- 
ing the  deep  lights  of  her  eyes  to  this  companion  in 
arms,  "  the  city  was  ours  this  night.  We  should  have 
gone  in  through  the  breach  we  had  made.  It  was 
almost  taken." 

"  A  night's  rest  and  comforting  of  the  bolt- wound 
in  your  foot  will  not  come  amiss.  Without  waiting 
on  councils,  we  will  take  our  people  and  dash  across 
to  a  new  attack  at  dawn.  If  your  wound  proves  too 
sore,  send  me  instant  word  by  your  page,  pucelle." 

"  The  wound  shall  not  hinder  me  j  I  scarce  knew  I 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  209 

had  it  until  they  pulled  me  from  the  breach.  We  will 
ride  early,  fair  duke,  and  that  must  be  a  loud  trumpet 
that  recalls  us  to-morrow." 

She  was  ready  to  laugh,  with  the  prospect  of  di- 
rectly renewing  the  assault.  And  the  La  Chapelle 
woman  in  whose  house  and  bedchamber  she  slept  rose 
astonished,  in  the  dark  of  the  morning,  to  bring  her 
the  bread  and  watered  wine  on  which  she  broke  her 
fast.  A  young  maid  with  a  pierced  foot  in  bandages 
and  oil,  she  dressed  in  haste  like  joy  itself,  to  go  out 
through  fog  across  a  bridge  of  boats,  to  be  shot  at  again 
by  all  the  archers  of  Paris ! 

Bertrand  de  Poulengy  came  with  her  armor,  and  as 
he  drew  the  straps  with  practised  fingers  she  promised 
him  relief. 

"We  will  take  Paris  to-day,  Bertrand;  and  after- 
ward, by  exchange  of  prisoners,  we  must  get  poor 
D'Aulon  back.  You  have  had  double  labor  since  he 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  English  at  Baron.  I  grieve 
for  poor  D'Aulon." 

"  I  also,"  said  Bertrand,  with  gentle  irony—  "  I  grieve 
for  poor  D'Aulon." 

"  I  do  esteem  him,  Bertrand." 

"  I  also,"  said  Bertrand.  "  As  soon  as  the  English 
had  him  my  esteem  rose.  If  they  will  only  keep  him, 
I  shall  in  time  love  him  like  a  brother." 

Jeanne  glanced  over  her  shoulder  at  her  squire,  who 
was  diligent  with  her  buckles. 

"Indeed,  D'Aulon  never  grieved  me.  But  I  have 
done  myself  more  discomfort  than  any  other  has  ever 
done  me,  by  breaking  the  sword  of  Fierbois.  It  can 
never  be  mended.  Oh,  Bertrand,  I  did  not  come  to  the 

14 


210  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

wars  to  break  the  sword  of  Fierbois  on  poor  Haumette 
Davide ! " 

"  Let  it  go,  and  heed  it  not,"  said  the  squire,  bring- 
ing her  belt  with  a  strong  sword  which  she  had  taken 
the  day  before  at  the  Porte  St.  Honore.  "  Here  is  one 
that  answers  as  well  to  give  good  blows  and  clouts 
with." 

She  had  herself  thrown  the  long-sleeved  levite  over 
her  mail,  and  as  he  knelt  with  her  girdle,  her  unusually 
piteous  face  broke  him  down  in  his  vow.  He  seized 
her  hands  and  kissed  them,  and  trembled  with  uncon- 
trollable passion.  The  touch  of  her  was  so  sweet  to 
him,  and  ease  from  his  long  self-restraint  was  so 
blessed,  that  he  held  her  with  strength  until  she 
wrenched  herself  loose,  throwing  him  forward  upon 
his  palms. 

The  squire  stood  up  and  faced  her,  his  blue  eyes 
dauntless  with  the  rage  of  his  love.  Jeanne  turned 
her  back  on  him. 

"I  will  go  to  Haumette  Davide,"  spoke  Bertrand. 
"  She  is  at  least  a  woman.  She  will  speak  a  word  of 
pity  to  a  wretch  that  has  not  had  his  torment  eased  in 
three  long  years.  My  faith,  as  well  as  the  sword  of 
Fierbois,  shall  be  broken  on  Haumette  Davide !  " 

He  flung  himself  into  the  humid  dawn,  where  fog 
trailed  like  wet  threads  in  La  Chapelle  street  between 
his  face  and  the  face  of  Louis  de  Coutes,  who  held 
Jeanne's  courser. 

The  page  gave  little  heed  to  the  squire.  Holding 
the  bridles  of  war-horse  and  palfrey,  he  waited  in  hag- 
gard excitement  to  deliver  news  to  the  maid.  Jeanne 
brought  out  her  casque,  which  Bertrand  had  left  un- 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ABC  211 

laced,  for  Louis  de  Coutes  to  cany  behind  her  on  his 
saddle-bow.  The  squire  was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  and 
even  Pierre  failed  to  attend  her.  The  low  sky  trailed 
on  roofs,  and  drops  of  humidity  began  at  once  to  dim 
her  mail  like  an  overcoating  of  minute  beads. 

"  The  Due  d' Alenc.on  and  Messire  Pierre  d'Arc  have 
both  gone  to  St.  Denis,"  said  the  page,  without  wait- 
ing for  her  inquiry. 

"  They  are  in  haste,  but  by  hard  riding  we  shall 
overtake  them.  Are  the  troops  all  stirring  ?  " 

Louis  stood  bareheaded  before  her.  The  hair  curled 
around  his  neck.  "Pucelle,  they  went  to  the  king. 
They  bade  me  tell  you  the  bridge  of  boats  is  cut  adrift. 
No  one  can  now  cross  to  attack  Paris." 

"  When  was  this  thing  done  ? " 

"  Last  night." 

"  By  whose  command  ? " 

"  The  king's." 

Jeanne's  face  stiffened ;  but  she  said  directly :  "  The 
bridge  of  boats— en  nom  De,  let  it  go ;  we  can  enter 
elsewhere  than  by  the  bridge  of  boats.  "We  shall  go 
in  by  the  breach  made  yesterday  at  Porte  St.  Honore. 
Why  has  the  duke  gone  to  the  king  ?  He  should  be 
riding  down  hither  with  his  troops.  Mount,  and  after 
him !  I  think  the  men  are  all  mad  this  morning. 
We  have  no  time  for  councils  and  visits  of  ceremony." 

"  But,  pucelle,"  disclosed  the  page,  "  King  Charles 
has  ordered  a  retreat  from  Paris." 

The  stern  maid  put  her  attendant  on  his  defense. 

"  Am  I  to  believe  this  story  ?  Who  left  St.  Denis  in 
the  night  with  such  commands  from  the  king  ? " 

"  His  Majesty's  own  herald.     And  there  was  haste ; 


212  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

but  you  were  not  to  be  roused  from  sleep.  The  Due 
d'Alengon  rode  off  to  St.  Denis  to  inquire  into  the 
matter,  and  he  himself  sent  you  word  that  the  bridge 
of  boats  is  cut  adrift." 

" The  king  has  ordered  a  retreat  from  Paris?" 

"  It  is  the  truth,  pucelle." 

Jeanne  put  her  arm  on  her  courser's  neck,  and  leaned 
with  all  the  weight  of  her  mail.  She  gasped  as  if 
some  one  had  struck  her  in  the  breast ;  and  Louis  de 
Coutes,  forced  to  be  purveyor  of  this  cruelty,  was  ready 
to  curse  his  sovereign.  Yet  the  courtier's  instinct  to 
make  his  own  advantage  out  of  another's  discomfiture 
was  boldly  alert  in  his  look.  He  was  sorry  for  the 
military  leader,  but  he  was  fiercely  glad  the  woman 
had  met  a  rebuff  which  might  make  her  kind.  The 
boy's  eyes  filled  with  honest  tears,  and  he  slid  to  his 
knees,  holding  the  bridles  in  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  my  great  mistress,  I  am  of  good  family.  Look 
not  on  me  as  your  horse-boy.  By  our  Lady,  I  can 
hold  back  no  longer !  I  shall  soon  be  knighted,  and 
no  woman  need  then  despise  me  as  a  husband." 

"  Stand  up !  "  said  Jeanne.  "  Have  you  no  regard 
for  your  hose,  furnished  by  a  poor  king  who  has  just 
been  forced  to  throw  away  Paris  ? " 

"  If  I  stand  up  at  no  kinder  bidding,  it  will  be  to 
lay  your  squire  low." 

"  Go  to  the  king,  Louis  de  Coutes,  and  tell  him  I 
now  have  no  need  of  a  page.  Ask  him  any  favor  he 
can  do  you  for  my  sake.  We  shall  part  at  St.  Denis." 

The  enraged  boy  followed  her  as  she  took  her  own 
bridle  from  him  to  mount.  "  I  will  not  be  turned  off 
like  a  varlet ! "  His  large,  light  eyes  and  loose  lips 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  IXAKC  213 

and  the  thick  tip  of  his  nose  seemed  distended  by 
aggressiveness. 

But  he  knew  he  had  banished  himself  from  the  maid, 
and  her  reserve,  as  she  looked  down  from  the  saddle, 
chilled  him  and  sealed  his  mouth.  She  thanked  him 
for  his  service,  commended  him  again  to  the  king,  and 
rode  off.  Louis  de  Coutes  struck  the  earth-stains  on 
his  shins,  and  glanced  at  neighboring  windows.  La 
Chapelle  was  stirring  in  the  sullen  dawn.  He  could 
do  nothing  but  mount  his  palfrey  and  follow  at  a  dis- 
tance, debarred  from  his  page's  duties. 

Early  as  it  was,  the  abbey  of  St.  Denis,  where 
the  king  lodged,  showed  preparations  for  departure. 
Charles  carried  with  him  such  luxuries  as  he  could, 
and  he  never  for  any  military  consideration  omitted  a 
dinner  or  a  night's  rest.  But  he  was  as  near  eager- 
ness as  his  phlegmatic  nature  ever  approached  to  be 
done  with  the  campaign  and  on  the  southward  road. 

To  retreat  from  the  capital  without  taking  it  at  that 
time  meant  to  disband  the  army.  Officers  and  their 
retinues  signed  indentures  of  service  for  a  specified 
number  of  months,  and  without  reenlistment  they 
could  not  even  go  into  winter  quarters  to  be  at  the 
disposal  of  the  sovereign,  though  many  knights  and 
nobles,  among  them  La  Hire,  De  Xantrailles,  and  the 
Due  d'Alengon,  would  retire  into  the  north  to  hold 
towns  and  fortresses. 

Seldom  had  so  much  been  done  by  loyal  subjects 
for  an  impoverished  monarch.  The  pucelle  herself 
had  acted  as  his  treasurer,  husbanding  his  means  to 
the  utmost,  and  holding  the  retinues  of  his  captains  so 
devoted  to  her  that  they  would  have  served  for  noth- 


214  THE  DAYS   OF   JEANNE  D'AEC 

ing  but  their  bread.  Those  northern  cities  that  had 
returned  to  their  allegiance  needed  the  protection  of 
the  capital.  Charles  left  them  to  shift  for  themselves. 
Master  of  Paris,  where  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  was 
the  most  popular  man  in  the  kingdom,  he  might  have 
treated  successfully  with  that  alienated  vassal. 

The  west  door  of  the  cathedral  of  St.  Denis  opened 
from  a  mean  street  crowded  with  many  little  shops. 
Jeanne  entered  it  lame-footed,  coming  from  her  inter- 
view with  the  king,  about  the  middle  of  the  forenoon. 
Within  she  sat  down  on  the  steps  which  form  a  short 
terrace  to  a  vast  expanse  of  floor.  Opposite,  far  away, 
stood  the  great  altar  bearing  up  a  gold  Christ  between 
two  tall  candles.  Echoes  resounded  in  the  Gothic 
arches  from  a  service  in  one  of  the  chapels.  Jeanne 
set  her  helmet,  which  she  still  carried,  on  the  floor  be- 
side her,  a  polished  head-piece,  like  the  top  of  a  knight 
embedded  in  stone. 

The  king  had  commanded  her  to  follow  him  to 
Bourges.  Already  the  retreat  from  Paris  was  begun, 
though  it  would  have  to  be  covered  by  troops,  and  La 
Chapelle  and  St.  Denis  would  not  be  entirely  evacu- 
ated for  several  days.  She  leaned  her  face  on  her 
hands,  too  sore  in  body  and  spirit  to  creep  down  for 
a  prayer  before  the  nearest  altar.  A  tardy  sun  was 
beginning  to  make  glimmers  through  the  clerestory 
windows  high  above. 

Her  enemies,  of  whom  she  had  scarcely  thought  in  the 
ardor  of  war  and  fatigue  of  many  marches,  now  pressed 
her  in  defeat,  and  seemed  to  follow  her  under  the 
arches  of  St.  Denis.  The  Regent  of  England  and  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy  Jeanne  left  out  of  account.  They 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  215 

were  to  be  met  in  open  field.  But  there  was  La  Tre- 
mouille,  covert  and  mocking,  a  man  who  had  never 
been  earnest  in  anything  except  the  pursuit  of  his 
own  pleasure.  He  had  done  as  much  to  bring  the 
campaign  to  naught  as  if  he  held  secret  league  with 
the  English.  La  Tremouille  had  also  prevented  the 
queen  from  journeying  to  Rheims,  thus  robbing  her 
of  coronation.  And  there  was  La  Tremouille's  friend, 
the  Count-Bishop  of  Beauvais,  who  had  some  little 
quarrel  against  her  concerning  horses  bought  of  him 
by  her  household,  and  perhaps  a  larger  hatred  for  that 
most  unreasonable  of  all  reasons — jealousy  of  power. 
Moreover,  there  was  the  Archbishop  of  Rheims,  the 
favorite's  brother,  who  had  taken  that  same  strange 
attitude  toward  her.  "En  nom  De !"  whispered  Jeanne, 
"  if  they  thought  more  of  the  king's  dignity,  and  less 
of  their  own,  it  would  be  the  better  for  France." 

But  there,  also,  were  her  friends,  scores,  thousands, 
men,  women,  children,  stout  knights  and  nobles  and 
men-at-arms.  Answering  the  silent  roll-call  of  her 
need,  one  of  them  entered  the  cathedral.  The  inner 
door  swung  shut  behind  him.  He  was,  like  herself, 
all  armed  except  his  head,  and  carried  a  plumed  hat 
in  his  hand  when  he  saw  her.  The  knight  who  had 
refused  to  follow  her  standard  at  Orleans  was  first  to 
seek  her  in  defeat  at  St.  Denis. 

The  maid's  eyes  met  his  in  a  long  gaze  of  sorrow. 
He  stooped  to  one  knee  to  talk  with  her.  Their  low 
voices  did  not  spread  from  one  little  circle  of  sound 
in  the  echoing  cathedral. 

"Has  anything  further  befallen  us,  Messire  de 
Gamaches  ? " 


216  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

"  No,  pucelle.  I  come  to  beg  that  there  be  no  adieus 
betwixt  us  two." 

"  Why,  we  must  all  part,  Messire  de  Gamaches.  But 
I  tell  you,  and  I  have  been  informed  truly,  however  it 
may  go  with  you  and  me,  there  will  not  be  an  English- 
man left  on  the  soil  of  France  within  seven  years." 

"  God  send  there  be  no  favorites  left,  either.  Do 
you  desire  to  follow  the  king  ?  " 

"  I  would  far  rather  go  home  and  tend  my  sheep, 
messire,  which  you  would  have  had  me  do  at  Orleans !  " 

"You  do  not  forget  that  I  rebelled  against  follow- 
ing your  standard  before  it  had  led  us  to  so  many 
victories  ? " 

"  I  remember  you  offered  me  your  horse  when  I  took 
my  first  wound." 

"  Not  my  horse  alone,  but  my  lands  and  myself  I  am 
ready  to  offer  you  now.  Pucelle,  I  am  of  good  family, 
though  scarce  your  equal  in  arms." 

"  Messire  de  Gamaches,  there  be  plenty  of  women 
in  France  for  wives.  You  may  easily  choose  among 
them ;  I  never  saw  a  more  accomplished  knight.  But 
I  was  born  to  other  uses.  The  king  had  best  employ 
my  time,  for  it  will  not  be  long." 

"I  have  a  regard  for  you,  pucelle,  that  I  have  for 
no  other,  man  or  woman.  We  have  been  captains  to- 
gether, and  I  had  liefer  be  commanded  by  you  than 
by  any  other.  When  you  take  the  field  again  I  will 
follow  your  standard." 

"  Messire,  you  have  given  me  the  only  comfort  I 
have  had  this  day.  When  the  king  has  so  many  good 
men  ready  in  his  hand,  how  can  he  disperse  them? 
But  it  is  the  favorite's  doing." 

"  Yes,  the  apricots  like  little  red  apples  will  be  past 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  217 

their  season  in  Bourges,  if  La  Tremouille  makes  no 
haste  to  disband  the  army.  I  have  heard  him  mourn 
the  loss  of  them,  together  with  his  ease." 

"  Yet  he  tilted  well  by  Senlis,  messire." 

"  A  man  must  sometimes  shiver  a  lance,  or  age  will 
come  on  him  in  his  youth.  Pucelle,  I  am  loath  to  let 
you  go  south  to  yonder  court." 

Jeanne  gave  him  both  her  hands  in  farewell.  Their 
gauntlets  met  with  a  metallic  sound.  She  thought, 
"  When  shall  I  see  such  goodly  arrays  of  men  gathered 
again  ? "  Her  eyes  swam,  her  chin  quivered.  As  these 
companions  in  arms  had  met,  so  they  parted,  with  a 
long  look  of  sorrow.  The  closing  door  swung  silently 
behind  De  Gamaches,  and  Jeanne  limped  slowly  down 
the  steps,  helmet  in  hand. 

No  more  would  that  casque  lead  like  a  star  in  as- 
saults. It  had  been  broken  by  a  stone  at  Jargeau. 
She  traced  the  closed  seam  which  an  armorer  had  skil- 
fully made. 

One  old  woman  with  kerchief-bound  head,  and  a 
wrinkled  man  in  blue  smock,  knelt  at  their  prayers. 
Pattering  with  unceasing  lips,  they  watched  the  glit- 
tering figure,  already  loved  in  St.  Denis,  pass  along  the 
cathedral  wall.  Jeanne  felt  her  wound  to  f aintness  as 
she  descended  to  the  crypt  under  this  church,  where 
all  the  kings  of  France,  from  Dagobert,  were  buried. 
Low  stone  galleries  wound  about  vaults  and  chapels 
in  which  the  great  gray  coffins  were  enshrined.  Charles 
had  given  up  these  as  well  as  his  capital  to  the  enemy. 
She  dragged  her  foot  along  the  stone  path,  or  leaned 
her  forehead  against  the  side  of  a  cold  arch.  The 
crypt  was  deadly  chill. 

Another  mailed  tread  followed  her,  and  she  saw 


218  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

Poton  de  Xantrailles  coining,  tall  and  well-thewed, 
thin-faced  and  sharp-eyed,  but  downcast,  as  though 
he  bent  his  head  to  escape  the  top  of  the  crypt.  Like 
all  the  captains,  he  was  ready  harnessed,  for  a  general 
attack  on  Paris  had  been  intended  by  way  of  the  bridge 
of  boats. 

Jeanne  felt  her  heart  unendurably  swelling  toward 
the  scattering  army.  De  Xantrailles,  with  the  gentle 
manners  of  courts,  controlled  himself,  and  gave  her 
first  a  message  from  the  king,  who  would  know,  since 
she  had  dismissed  her  page,  young  Louis  de  Coutes, 
if  she  desired  to  have  Louis's  brother  Raymond  in- 
stead. 

"  En  nom  De,"  answered  Jeanne,  "  let  me  have  no 
more  of  the  De  Coutes  family."  She  laughed.  "  The 
knights  are  dispersing,  and  Paris  is  thrown  away,  and 
we  must  take  thought  only  of  pages.  But  understand 
well,  I  do  not  blame  my  king,  Messire  de  Xantrailles." 

He  stood  high  above  the  maid.  His  vizor  was  lifted. 
De  Xantrailles  had  witnessed  the  glories  of  the  court 
of  Burgundy— a  duchy  that  outdid  many  kingdoms  in 
splendor,  where  tournaments  were  oftener  celebrated 
than  anywhere  else  in  Christendom,  and  chivalry,  in- 
stead of  falling  to  decay,  was  at  its  height.  But  loyalty 
which  excused  the  lax  relinquishment  of  a  kingdom 
he  had  not  often  seen. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  cause  of  this  sudden  retreat  ? " 
he  inquired. 

"No,  messire." 

"  Charles  has  just  completed  making  a  truce  with 
the  Duke  of  Burgundy  until  Easter." 

"  The  only  truce  with  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  should 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  219 

be  made  at  the  point  of  a  lance !  He  showed  his  sov- 
ereign nothing  but  contempt  when  a  message  was  sent 
from  Rheims  beseeching  him  to  throw  in  his  lot  with 
his  people.  The  English  only  desire  to  use  him." 

"  You  had  scarce  left  the  king,  pucelle,  when  a  knight 
came  riding  from  Paris  with  sixty  followers  to  join 
the  royal  party.  He  says  the  city  was  never  so  ready 
to  yield.  But  we  have  made  truce  with  Burgundy,  so 
we  go  home." 

Tears,  always  ready  in  Jeanne  from  childhood, 
gushed  down  the  oval  cheeks.  She  turned  and  sobbed 
against  the  wall.  Oh,  it  was  bitter  to  be  ruined  at  the 
goal  by  a  courtier's  misgovernment ! 

"Jeanne,"  said  De  Xantrailles,  trembling  in  the 
voice,  "  I  am  appointed  governor  of  Coucy,  the  strong- 
est fortress  in  France.  I  am  of  good  family." 

The  maid  drew  her  breath  sharply  at  these  ominous 
words. 

"  I  will  demand  you  of  your  brother  Pierre,  and  also 
of  the  king,  as  any  maid  should  be  demanded.  Come 
with  me  to  Coucy.  The  wife  of  De  Xantrailles  may 
at  least  live  apart  from  a  court  ruled  by  the  favorite." 

"En  nom  De,  what  ails  these  men?"  cried  Jeanne. 
"  Have  you  all  agreed  to  take  pity  on  a  poor  scourge 
of  England  because  she  is  thrown  aside,  and  house  her 
since  she  has  no  field  for  her  arms  ?  But  I  know  why 
you  come  to  me  with  tears  in  your  eyes,  thinking  com- 
fort may  be  found  in  marriage.  It  is  the  cry  of  France 
rending  every  one  of  us." 

She  set  her  casque  on  the  floor,  and  took  him  by  both 
gauntlets,  as  she  had  taken  that  other  good  knight, 
De  Gamaches.  Her  companion  in  arms  worshiped  her 


220  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

silently,  without  daring  to  draw  her  nearer  his  mailed 
body. 

As  if  she  could  not  bear  any  further  words  of  part- 
ing from  captains  who  felt  this  general  bereavement 
as  she  felt  it,  Jeanne  snatched  up  her  helmet,  and 
limped  away  from  De  Xantrailles  along  the  crypt. 

Behind  the  choir  of  St.  Denis,  and  back  of  the  great 
altar,  was  a  little  chapel  to  the  Virgin.  Bertrand  de 
Poulengy  was  kneeling  there.  He  heard  a  halting  step 
behind  him,  and  turned  and  saw  the  maid.  With  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  statue,  she  began  to  unbuckle  her 
armor.  Exhausted  and  ghastly,  and  struggling  with 
her  unaccustomed  task,  she  yielded  him  back  his  office 
of  squire  without  a  word  of  reproach,  standing  in  the 
stained  light  which  poured  over  her  from  high  windows. 

"  I  went  to  Haumette  Davide,"  he  whispered  to  the 
maid.  "  She  is  going  home  to  her  mother  with  De 
Metz  of  Novelopont,  when  he  has  taken  leave  of  you. 
Will  you  call  me  D'Aulon  hereafter — the  squire  who 
never  caused  you  any  discomfort?  Let  me  take  his 
place  while  he  is  a  prisoner." 

"  I  have  no  longer  need  of  squire  or  armor,"  answered 
Jeanne ;  "  yet  I  cannot  well  do  without  you." 

"  That  is  enough  for  me." 

"  You  are  fit  to  approach  this  altar  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  unfit." 

The  squire  helped  her  carry  all  the  pieces  of  her 
armor  and  place  them  about  the  feet  of  the  statue. 
Jeanne  knelt,  and  lifted  her  sword  by  the  blade  in  both 
hands,  with  the  cross-hilt  over  her  head. 

"  My  virgin  armor  I  sacrifice  and  offer  here  upon 
this  altar.  It  is  the  cry  of  France !  " 


XIII 

ITTLE  king  of  Bourges"  though  Charles 
VII  was  called  by  his  enemies,  he  had  no 
palace  there,  and  was  obliged  to  use  the 
chateau  of  his  uncle,  the  Due  de  Berri,  who 
retired  for  the  winter  to  another  outside  the  walls. 
The  chateau  of  Bourges  was  a  wide,  stately  pile  of 
stone,  blackened  instead  of  bleached  by  age,  seated 
among  threading  streets  and  crowding  houses,  half- 
way up  a  slope  of  land  at  the  top  of  which  stood  St. 
IStienne's  cathedral.  Common  soldiers  and  attendants 
entered  the  chateau  from  the  street  below  by  a  court 
opening  into  guard-rooms.  But  the  Chevalier  du  Lys 
turned  in  at  one  of  the  great  gates  which,  standing 
opposite,  made  a  crossing  street  of  the  paved  court 
fronting  the  palace. 

Pages  were  always  hastening  up  or  down  the  stone 
steps,  and  horses  waiting  in  the  court,  except  at  this 
hour  when  night  fell  and  candle-light  began  to  glim- 
mer. A  torch  burned  at  each  side  of  the  steps,  strug- 
gling with  foggy  air,  and  the  stones  were  slippery  with 
hardening  moisture  under  the  chevalier's  feet.  He 
passed  through  half -deserted  antechambers,— for  at 

221 


222  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

dusk  the  king  still  sat  at  table,— and  through  long 
vaulted  corridors  to  the  great  hall  where  the  court 
assembled  for  its  evening  diversions.  Sconced  candles 
were  already  lighted  along  the  pillared  walls,  and  logs 
roared  in  the  chimney.  It  was  a  mighty  chimney, 
carved  all  around  with  stone  oak-leaves.  Half  a  dozen 
knights  could  have  spurred  into  it,  elbow  to  elbow, 
without  grazing  their  casques  on  the  top.  Its  swelling 
breast  withdrew  upward  to  a  many-timbered  ceiling. 
And  there  the  firelight  twinkled  on  polished  joists, 
while  below  it  spread  a  river  of  shine  along  the  floor, 
partially  bridged  by  three  figures  in  front  of  the 
hearth. 

The  chevalier  saw  that  they  were  his  sister  and  the 
young  demoiselles  Agnes  Sorel  and  Madeleine  Power. 
They  did  not  see  him.  Even  Jeanne  was  dwarfed  by 
the  size  of  the  great  room.  His  heart  gave  a  leap,  and, 
uncertain  whether  he  should  enter  while  they  three 
talked  by  themselves,  he  stood  at  the  door  holding  his 
hat  in  his  hand.  The  beauty  of  Agnes  Sorel  when 
wrath  stirred  her  was  like  coruscating  light.  But  he 
paid  no  attention  to  her  or  to  what  she  said.  He  looked 
at  Madeleine  Power.  As  soon  as  the  Chevalier  du  Lys 
had  received  his  patent  of  nobility,  supported  by  a 
grant  of  land  near  Orleans,  and  had  ceased  to  be  called 
Pierre  d'Arc,  he  asked  one  more  favor  of  the  king, 
without  which  the  first  two  were  thrown  away  upon 
him.  But  he  was  made  to  understand  that  La  Tre- 
mouille  had  already  contracted  the  demoiselle  Power 
in  a  suitable  alliance. 

Jeanne  and  Madeleine  stood  with  their  arms  around 
each  other.  All  of  Agnes's  hair  was  drawn  up  from 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  223 

her  clear  forehead  under  a  hennin,  and  her  cheeks 
burned  scarlet  with  excitement. 

"  This  hour  a  thing  hath  been  said  to  me,"  exclaimed 
Agnes,  with  a  pretty  catch  of  her  breath  as  she  spoke, 
which  was  nobody's  but  Agnes  Sorel's,  "  such  as  never 
should  be  said  to  maid  by  the  mother-in-law  of  a  king." 

"  But  Queen  Yolande  is  very  good-natured,"  Made- 
leine objected.  "  I  never  heard  her  speak  amiss." 

"  Oh,  her  Majesty  of  Sicily  intends  me  high  honor, 
no  doubt.  But  I  was  not  brought  up  in  a  court.  We 
are  better  nurtured  at  Loches." 

"  What  did  she  say  ? "  inquired  Jeanne,  seeing  the 
statecraft  of  Queen  Yolande,  and  her  latest  attempt  to 
juggle  troops  and  men  out  of  nothing  for  the  siege  of 
La  Charite  after  the  dispersion  of  the  army. 

"  I  will  not  tell  you.  It  was  an  insult  also  to  my 
king.  Only  a  year  ago  so  eager  was  I  to  come  to  court 
that  I  could  scarce  wait  until  my  kinswoman  resigned 
her  place  to  me.  And  now  I  am  sick  to  my  soul  of 
base  creatures  trying  to  ruin  their  sovereign  before 
all  Christendom.  Any  woman  would  set  what  wit  she 
had  against  it.  Look  not  over-conscious,  demoiselle ; 
we  do  not  choose  our  relations  in  this  world." 

"  I  never  chose  any  but  my  father,"  returned  Made- 
leine. 

"  Poor  child,  you  will  choose  no  more,  shut  up  in  the 
queen's  nunnery  apartments.  Oh,  if  I  were  Queen  of 
France  I  would  come  out  of  seclusion,  and  no  other 
woman  should  share  with  me  the  rousing  of  the  king." 

"  He  is  wedded  to  Bourges  and  Sully,"  said  Jeanne, 
wistfully  looking  at  the  fire.  "  The  sight  of  Paris 
should  have  roused  him." 


224  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

Agnes  Sorel  laughed. 

"  Pucelle,  I  believe  you  see  nothing  in  this  court  but 
the  length  and  strength  of  men's  legs  and  arms  idling 
out  of  armor.  Aside  from  war,  you  are  as  simple  as 
an  infant." 

The  Chevalier  du  Lys  heard  this  as  he  stood  aside 
bowing  deeply  to  let  the  king  pass,  and  he  knew  it 
was  so.  Many  soft-shod  feet  trod  the  pavement  as  the 
crowd  of  courtiers  flocked  after  the  king,  who  leaned 
on  La  Tremouille's  arm.  Silks  and  satins  shone  lus- 
trously, nor  were  slashed  sleeves  wanting,  to  show 
robes  of  linen  underneath.  Pierre  had  heard  De  Xan- 
trailles  say  that  linen,  and  especially  clean  linen,  was 
a  luxury  everywhere  in  France,  except  at  the  court  of 
Burgundy. 

He  fell  into  the  tide  of  human  presences.  Charles's 
household  soon  gave  themselves  up  to  the  newly  in- 
vented diversion  of  card-playing.  The  queen  had  a 
religious  dislike  of  what  she  called  idle  bits  of  paper, 
and  absented  herself  from  the  salon  where  the  game 
was  nightly  played.  Marie  of  Anjou,  though  an  un- 
usually compliant  wife  in  many  ways,  had  not  the  sym- 
pathetic breadth  of  her  mother,  Queen  Yolande,  who 
dealt  with  zest  and  fluttering  hands,  relaxing  a  mind 
filled  with  schemes  for  establishing  the  throne  of 
France. 

Little  ceremony  was  observed ;  Charles  demanded 
none  of  the  worship  which  his  cousin  of  Burgundy 
exacted.  Seated  at  many  small  tables,  with  many 
small  piles  of  coin  at  stake,  the  courtiers  filled  the  room 
with  hum  of  voices  and  laughter.  Alan  Chartier,  the 
court  poet,  wandered  from  table  to  table,  as  it  was  his 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  225 

custom  to  do,  holding  a  lute  in  the  curve  of  his  arm. 
The  king  had  Agnes  Sorel  for  his  partner,  and  La 
Tremouille  and  his  queen's  latest  maid  of  honor  for 
his  opponents.  La  Tremouille  wasted  no  attentions 
on  his  niece,  and  Madeleine  was  first  seen  in  hall  that 
night  after  her  winter  of  mourning.  She  learned  her 
part  doubtfully.  Pierre  could  see  her  eyebrows  draw- 
ing together.  She  lifted  her  black  eyes  and  met  his 
gaze  with  silent  greeting,  and  this  was  all  the  greeting 
they  two  had  been  allowed  since  he  came  to  Bourges. 
In  his  comings  and  goings  from  his  lodgings  in  the 
street  Trois  Pommes,  a  little  place  near  the  city  wall, 
and  in  the  cathedral  and  palace  corridors,  he  had 
watched  for  glimpses  of  Madeleine.  Yet  even  at  the 
lax  court  of  Bourges  she  was  so  celled  and  restricted 
that  he  saw  her  only  at  a  distance.  After  the  rejec- 
tion of  his  suit  he  had  gladly  followed  his  sister  from 
court  in  her  brief  restricted  campaign  eastward.  The 
Chevalier  du  Lys  felt  how  alien  his  sister  and  he  were 
with  their  new  patent  of  nobility. 

If  Charles  had  concluded  a  treaty  with  the  King  of 
Scotland  for  help  in  his  wars,  it  would  have  cost  him 
the  duchy  of  Berri  or  the  county  of  Evreux.  Jeanne 
d'Arc  had  cost  him  nothing,  and  was  a  greater  terror 
to  his  foes,  and  with  her  thrifty  peasant  hand  had  doled 
his  war  funds  to  the  uttermost  advantage.  The  least 
he  could  do  for  her  was  to  rank  her  among  robles,  so 
a  patent  was  conferred  on  her  and  all  her  family.  The 
heralds  made  her  a  coat  of  arms,  giving  her  the  mas- 
culine shield  instead  of  the  feminine  lozenge,  and  the 
device  of  the  crown  upheld  on  the  point  of  her  sword 
between  royal  fleurs-de-lis.  Du  Lys  was  the  new  name 

15 


226  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

of  her  family.  But  she  made  no  change  in  her  banner, 
and  said  to  the  heralds,  "  I  remain  Jeanne  d'Arc.  My 
father's  name  is  good  enough  for  me,  though  my 
brothers  may  like  the  other." 

During  this  dreary  winter  of  her  chained  inactivity, 
a  woman  named  Catherine  of  Rochelle  came  to  court 
with  visions ;  and  there  was  news  of  a  shepherd  boy  in 
the  mountains  who  promised  to  do  for  the  king  what 
Jeanne  had  undertaken,  and  to  do  it  better.  The 
favorite  also  bestirred  himself,  and  found  employment 
which  would  take  the  maid  out  of  his  sight  for  a  while. 
She  was  sent  to  take  St.  Pierre-le-Moustier,  southeast 
of  Bourges,  which  she  took  as  by  miracle,  and  La 
Charite,  northward,  which  was  so  strongly  fortified 
with  watch-towers  as  to  resist  a  siege.  Bourges  en- 
gaged her  octrois,  and  Orleans  also  sent  her  succors, 
says  a  chronicle,  but  the  court  provided  nothing.  The 
ground  was  frozen  hard,  slippery  with  frost,  and 
showers  of  crystals  filled  the  air  like  diamond-dust. 
Jeanne  was  glad  to  have  armor  again  upon  her  body, 
though  it  was  an  ill-fitting  suit  obtained  from  the  Due 
de  Berri,  and  glad  to  be  afield  and  see  the  sun  describe 
his  little  arc  in  the  south.  But  La  Charite"  had  to  be 
abandoned.  Once  her  spirit  rose  beyond  control,  and 
she  rode,  with  her  squire  and  her  brother  and  a  few 
attendants,  to  Orleans  and  Jargeau  and  Montfaucon. 
There  the  people  still  thought  of  France.  But  she 
heard  what  almost  slew  her.  The  state  of  the  country 
was  now  worse  than  it  had  been  before  she  took  up 
arms.  Invaders  and  robbers  were  alike  made  bold  by 
Charles's  withdrawal  from  the  north ;  and  the  English 
forced  exile  or  death  on  defenseless  people  who  would 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  227 

not  forswear  their  loyalty.  Whole  villages  stood  ten- 
antless,  the  inhabitants  having  journeyed  into  other 
countries.  Pestilence  also  followed  the  long  famine. 
Everywhere  the  earth,  rank  with  centuries  of  foul  ac- 
cumulations, yielded  up  their  odor  to  dampness.  It 
was  told  her  that  wolves  prowled  even  in  Paris,  that 
skeletons  of  children  lay  on  dunghills,  and  the  cry  of 
wandering  wretches  could  be  heard  in  the  night— "I 
am  dying  of  cold  and  hunger !  "  Yet  Paris  was  then 
the  pleasantest  city  in  France,  with  covered  bridges 
and  orchards,  vineyards  and  towered  fortresses.  The 
Bastille  stood  among  trees.  That  winter  trenches 
were  cut  and  bodies  laid  in  the  ground  like  corded 
wood. 

Pierre  could  see  the  intrigues  around  him.  He 
knew  that  Queen  Yolande  constantly  threw  Agnes 
Sorel  in  the  king's  way,  and  that  the  Queen  of  France 
was  resigned  to  desperate  measures  against  La  Tre- 
mouille.  He  saw  the  eyes  of  that  young  maid  of  honor, 
defiant  against  her  pursuer,  yet  melting  constantly  in 
helpless  tenderness  upon  the  king.  He  saw  and  en- 
joyed the  jealous  rage  of  La  Tremouille,  who  brought 
counter-forces  to  bear  in  a  war  suited  to  a  favorite's 
talents ;  and  many  another  hand-to-hand  encounter 
Pierre  could  see  betwixt  courtiers  sleepy-eyed  with 
dissipation. 

But  Jeanne  saw  nothing.  Whenever  she  came  into 
hall,  a  supple,  noble  figure,  her  rapt  gaze  moving  from 
face  to  face,  she  was  a  rebuke,  being  above  all  martial 
glory  the  maid,  virgin  in  mind  and  person,  the  maid 
of  France. 

"  Why  should  the  paschal  lamb  be  paraded  ? "  was 


228  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

spitefully  said  behind  her  back.  "  Turn  it  out  again 
to  its  native  grass." 

"  Oh,  Jeanne  d'Arc ! "  a  courtier  would  groan  to 
some  face  within  the  screen  of  a  fan.  "  La-la !  I  am 
so  sick  of  this  pucelle.  She  can  take  pleasure  in  no 
human  pursuit,  but  must  be  praying  or  riding  and 
fighting.  A  lover  would  be  more  to  the  purpose  at 
her  age,  but  she  will  not  even  make  love.  The  king 
might  amuse  himself  better  with  a  dwarf." 

Yet  the  maid  laughed  in  fellowship  and  without  bit- 
terness when  she  came  back  flushed  from  St.  Pierre- 
le-Moustier,  or  from  rushing  through  the  winter  air  on 
her  courser.  Her  face  was  not  sad,  but  it  wore  the 
puzzled  look  of  one  constrained  to  waste  on  lower  things 
a  space  of  time  given  for  robust  action.  Housing  and 
trivial  amusements  were  hard  for  her  to  endure,  when 
the  pulse  of  France  was  again  reviving  in  the  north. 

Jeanne  remained  leaning  against  the  chimney,  being 
left  out  when  tables  were  set  for  cards.  She  was  richly 
dressed,  as  the  king  required  her  to  be,  wearing  over 
the  fine  cloth  of  her  chevalier's  costume  a  crimson- vel- 
vet levite.  The  long,  loose  sleeves  almost  covered  her 
hands,  on  one  of  which  She  wore  the  ring  her  father 
had  given  her  at  Rheims.  A  lean  child  like  a  wolf 
stood  near,  and  watched  her  with  sharp  eyes,  seeming 
to  measure  her  capacity  for  war,  and  sagely  to  appre- 
ciate her  as  one  of  the  engines  for  extending  his  future 
kingdom.  A  servant  of  the  queen's  bedchamber  did 
reverent  battle  with  him  to  draw  him  from  this  spec- 
tacle for  the  night.  But  he  escaped  out  of  this  person's 
hands  with  slippery  ease,  and  roved  at  will  among 
the  tables. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  229 

Then  Alan  Chartier  approached,  playing  softly  on 
the  lute  he  carried  a  chanson  which  Jeanne  remem- 
bered. She  met  his  eyes  quickly.  The  court  poet  was 
this  winter  too  often  at  her  heels ;  yet  she  had  sym- 
pathy with  him,  as  one  seeking  also  for  expression, 
and  sometimes  falling  into  great  sadness  with  life. 

"  What  will  you  do  with  me,  pucelle  ? "  asked  Alan 
Chartier,  making  accompaniment  to  his  words  on  the 
lute-strings.  "  You  have  got  a  mastery  over  me  that 
grows  from  day  to  day." 

"  God  be  praised  for  that,"  laughed  Jeanne.  "  I 
have,  then,  at  least  one  man-at-arms." 

"  There  is  a  woman  soul  in  me,  and  in  you  there  is 
the  soul  of  a  man.  Will  you  put  me  to  the  further 
disadvantage  of  suing  for  your  love?" 

"  Nenni,"  answered  Jeanne,  using  the  strong  peasant 
negative.  "  That  I  will  not,  messire." 

"  The  pucelle  hath  just  received  a  declaration  from 
Alan  Chartier,"  remarked  Agnes  Sorel  to  Charles. 
"  He  plays  that  purring  tune  when  his  affections  are 
about  to  make  a  spring." 

"  Jumps  the  cat  that  way  ? "  responded  the  king, 
glancing  up  the  room.  His  stunted  dauphin,  the  wolf- 
like  child,  crept  behind  Agnes,  and  tweaked  hairs  on 
her  white  neck  below  the  hennin. 

"  It  was  merely  the  Dauphin  Louis  amusing  him- 
self," said  a  smiling  dame  at  the  next  table  to  her,  as 
she  recoiled  in  pain. 

"  If  the  nurse  does  not  remove  that  boy,  I  trust  God 
may !  "  Agnes  responded ;  and  Charles  himself  laughed. 
But  she  caught  a  gentle  caution  from  the  smooth- 
shaven,  clear-cut  face  of  Jacques  Coaur,  the  silversmith 


230  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

of  Bourges,  whose  many  favors  to  the  king  gave  him 
access  at  any  time  to  court.  His  friendly  smile  checked 
her  impatience  with  a  child  to  whose  making  had  gone  a 
mad  grandfather  and  a  corrupt  and  selfish  grandmother. 

Pierre  dealt  his  cards  indifferently.  He  had  been 
shoved  beside  the  wall  to  fill  a  table  far  from  Made- 
leine Power,  and  cared  little  whether  he  won  or  lost 
coin.  He  could  perceive  what  was  befalling  Agnes 
Sorel  in  spite  of  her  strict  bringing  up ;  and  with  the 
complete  rebellion  of  youth,  he  declared  to  himself  that 
happiness  bought  at  any  price  was  better  than  such 
misery  as  his.  Madeleine  Power  had  never  thought  of 
him.  She  was  promised  in  marriage  to  another  man 
whose  name  he  could  not  learn.  And  after  he  had 
watched  for  her  with  heart-sick  patience  so  many 
months,  she  glanced  at  him  once,  as  at  any  varlet. 

The  evening  waxing  later,  card-tables  were  put 
aside  for  dancing,  and  Pierre  followed  his  sister  into 
the  upper  corridors  of  the  palace.  Jeanne  also  had 
lodged  in  the  street  Trois  Pommes,  and  afterward  with 
the  wife  of  Jacques  Coaur ;  but  this  being  the  eve  of 
the  court's  departure  to  Sully,  she  slept  in  the  palace. 
They  walked  in  silence,  both  having  lost  the  fresh  joy 
of  life,  until  Pierre  opened  the  door  of  a  small  tower 
chamber  which  Jeanne  shared  with  a  maid  of  honor. 
She  kissed  him  on  his  cheeks,  and  said  : 

"Good  night,  Pierrelo.  Be  early  in  the  saddle. 
Sully-sur-Loire  is  the  chateau  of  La  Tremouille ;  but 
at  least  we  go  toward  Compiegne,  where  I  have  reason 
to  believe  our  people  may  now  be  fighting." 

"  You  saw  the  demoiselle  Paure  in  the  hall,  Jehan- 
nette?" 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  I^AKC  231 

"  Yes ;  both  before  and  after  the  king  entered." 

"  Does  the  queen  go  to  Sully  f " 

"  The  queen  goes,  but  Madeleine  Paure  does  not." 

Hatred  of  Sully  that  instant  entered  Pierre. 

"  I  love  her  as  if  she  were  our  Catherine,  Pierrelo. 
But  put  all  thoughts  of  marriage  out  of  your  head 
until  France  is  better  at  ease." 

"  Since  no  marriage  is  made  for  me,  how  can  I  do 
otherwise  ?  " 

"I  did  my  best  for  thee,  Pierrelo,  though  it  is  a 
marvel  to  me  how  men  can  desire  to  wed  when  they 
have  no  country.  But  here  in  this  court  they  think  of 
nothing  but  lute-playing  and  the  talk  of  lovers.  Are 
there  not  enough  starving  families  now  in  France  with- 
out founding  more  ?  " 

"  Jehannette,  in  some  ways  you  do  not  grow  at  all, 
but  remain  a  child." 

"  That  part  of  me  which  does  not  grow  is  not  needed," 
reflected  Jeanne. 

"  But  why  does  the  demoiselle  Paure  remain  here, 
if  the  queen  goes  to  Sully  ? "  inquired  Pierre,  desiring 
to  find  some  excuse  for  remaining  himself. 

"  She  does  not  remain  here.  She  goes  to  Loches, 
where  her  family  are  about  to  celebrate  her  marriage." 

Pierre  turned  sick.    "  Who  is  the  man,  Jehannette  ? " 

"  Young  Louis  de  Coutes !  "  Jeanne  smiled  in  the 
face  of  his  misery.  "  That  froward  lad,  my  page.  But 
he  is  of  good  family,  as  he  himself  assured  me;  one 
of  the  richest  in  Touraine,  the  demoiselle  Agnes  says, 
and  the  king  will  early  knight  him  for  good  services." 

"Louis  de  Coutes!  No  wonder  her  family  were 
close-mouthed  with  the  bridegroom's  name.  A  boy 


232  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

—a  scribe  fellow  that  wrote  your  letters  and  set  down 
your  accounts ! " 

"  He  is  mine  own  age,  Pierrelo,  and  much  older  in 
nobility  than  a  chevalier  called  Du  Lys." 

"  He  shall  not  have  her !  Doth  she  like  this  mar- 
riage, Jehannette  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  ask  her,"  answered  Jeanne,  with  such 
candor  that  the  miserable  chevalier  smiled. 

"  That  insolent  Louis  de  Coutes  who  drew  sword 
against  Bertrand  at  St.  Denis !  " 

" Did  he  so?" 

Pierre  sent  the  whistling  Domremy  yes  betwixt  his 
lips.  "  And  Bertrand  gave  him  the  wound  that  has 
kept  him  out  of  court  this  winter,  while  his  family  ar- 
range for  him  this  marriage.  Louis  de  Coutes  hath 
despite  against  us." 

"  If  it  had  not  been  Louis  de  Coutes,  it  had  been 
some  other  man  not  a  peasant  from  the  march  of  Lor- 
raine. We  could  not  hope  that  the  favorite  would 
make  any  alliance  with  us.  I  have  caused  a  letter  to 
be  sent  to  Tours  asking  that  five  hundred  livres  tour- 
nois  be  voted  by  the  city  to  the  marriage  portion  of 
Messire  Paure's  daughter.  He  painted  my  banner. 
It  is  the  only  reward  I  have  ever  asked  for  my  services 
to  France,  except  the  lifting  of  the  tax  from  Domremy." 

A  candle  in  the  chamber  shone  on  Pierre,  showing 
his  hardening  face,  which  had  matured  since  the  wind 
along  the  Meuse  blew  rings  of  hair  over  his  forehead. 
The  tan  of  a  military  summer  was  cleared  from  his 
lovable  features  by  partial  housing.  A  reckless  look 
sprang  into  his  gray  eyes. 

"  I  will  not  care.     It  shall  be  nothing  to  me." 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  233 

"  Oh,  Pierrelo,  I  wish  we  could  go  home !  " 

Pierre  gave  her  a  sidewise  glance.  "But  what 
would  we  do  in  Domremy  now,  Jehannette  ?  For  me, 
it  is  my  wish  to  go  where  La  Hire  and  De  Xantrailles 
and  the  Due  d'Alenc.on  are.  I  would  see  some  more 
fighting." 

Jeanne  herself  laughed  eagerly.  "Has  Bertrand 
made  all  our  preparations  for  the  journey  to-morrow  ? " 

"  He  forgets  nothing.  I  left  him  polishing  your  old 
mail." 

Pierre  kissed  his  sister  on  both  her  cheeks,  bade  her 
good  night  again,  and  turned  to  leave  the  palace. 

A  few  torches  were  fastened  along  the  stone  walls, 
overlaying  with  a  new  smear  of  blackness  the  breath 
of  past  torches  as  chill  drafts  of  air  flowed  by.  His 
echoing  steps  brought  him  nearer  the  staircase,  and 
there  Madeleine  Power  met  him,  running  up  from  the 
hall  below.  They  both  paused  and  looked  at  each 
other,  and  Pierre  knew  she  had  come  on  purpose  to 
intercept  him.  He  heard  the  music.  A  wave  of  color 
carried  the  hardness  from  his  face,  and  left  it  pliant 
with  all  that  a  man  cannot  say.  To  see  her  so  near 
at  hand  was  to  be  enthralled  into  forgetting  what  had 
happened  and  what  might  come. 

This  demoiselle  in  court  dress  was  more  a  woman 
than  the  maid  in  her  mother's  old  clothes  at  Loches, 
or  the  peasant  who  carried  water  from  St.  Martin's 
well.  Pierre  looked  his  last  on  her  black  eyes  and 
bright  hair.  Madeleine  was  made  small  and  perfect 
like  an  ivory  miniature.  A  perfume  sweet  as  linden 
flowers  went  with  her,  conquering  the  rankness  of  the 
torches. 


234  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARG 

"  Chevalier  du  Lys,  I  have  something  which  belongs 
to  you,  and  I  would  not  return  it  by  any  other  hand 
than  my  own." 

Pierre  felt  the  old  palace  strike  cold  through  him  as 
he  remembered  the  horse-money  at  Tours.  There 
were  the  coins  showing  through  the  silk  netting  of  a 
new  purse.  His  voice  and  hands  shook,  but  he  made 
a  doubtful  face  over  his  examination  of  it. 

"  This  does  not  belong  to  me,  demoiselle." 

"  You  have  forgotten,  but  I  have  not.  You  dropped 
a  bag  in  my  pannier  at  Tours.  At  first  I  thought  it 
was  a  miracle  of  the  blessed  St.  Martin ;  but  when  my 
father  heard  about  you  he  knew  better." 

"  If  St.  Martin  parted  his  cloak  to  a  miserable  beg- 
gar, would  he  fail  of  gifts  to  pilgrims  ? " 

"  St.  Martin  gave  only  at  need,  chevalier.  He  knew 
my  mother's  family  would  not  let  my  father  and  me 
starve." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  take  this  purse  ? " 

"  It  is  clear  the  money  is  yours." 

"  Then  keep  it  as  a  peasant's  offering  to  his  lady's 
marriage." 

Her  face  fell.    She  looked  at  the  hilt  of  his  sword. 

"It  is  ungentle  to  remind  me  of  marriage." 

"  I  have  been  told  that  your  marriage  is  soon  to  be 
celebrated." 

"  There  is  much,  chevalier,  that  I  would  like  to  ask 
your  advice  about.  My  father  said  you  were  a  man  to 
be  trusted.  But  you  have  avoided  me  ever  since  you 
came  to  court." 

"Avoided  you,  demoiselle?  I  have  watched  for 
you  every  day." 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  235 

"  If  you  had  watched  for  me  you  must  have  found 
some  way  to  show  me  kindness.  I  have  no  friend  now, 
chevalier.  With  the  exception  of  the  pucelle,  there 
is  no  woman  I  love  at  court,  and  I  see  her  seldom. 
No  one  in  the  world  has  need  of  me  as  my  father 
had." 

The  innocent  child  who  had  walked  with  him  into 
St.  Martin's  cave,  holding  to  his  hand  because  the 
place  was  dark,  looked  at  him  again  through  the  eyes 
of  this  maid  of  honor.  He  could  hear  his  own  heart 
pounding,  and  the  rival  with  whom  her  marriage  was 
to  be  celebrated  passed  out  of  his  mind. 

"  Demoiselle  Madeleine,  I  myself  have  such  need  of 
you  that  I  swear  to  be  your  bachelor  for  life.  Because 
my  proposals  were  thought  unfit  for  you,  that  shall 
make  no  difference  with  me." 

"You  made  proposals  for  me,  chevalier?  When 
did  you  make  proposals  ? "  Her  face  was  white  and 
haughty.  It  disturbed  Pierre,  but  he  answered  with 
hardihood : 

"  As  soon  as  I  was  raised  to  a  rank  which  made  the 
proposals  possible." 

"  My  family  refused  them?" 

"  Your  family  refused  them." 

Madeleine  heard  her  aunt  De  Beuil  ascending  the 
staircase  behind  her  on  almost  silent  feet.  She  had  ex- 
pected to  be  followed  as  soon  as  she  was  missed.  But 
she  looked  at  Pierre  with  a  swift  and  silent  and  hope- 
less acknowledgment. 

Long  after  she  had  been  walked  in  disgrace  to  the 
queen's  apartments  through  the  tunnel-like  corridors 
of  the  palace,  he  stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  stupe- 


236  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

fied  by  unreasonable  joy,  and  trying  to  recall  the  flash 
which  had  fallen  upon  him. 

His  mind  went  no  further  than  that  look,  and  he 
wrapped  himself  in  the  thought  of  it  when  he  passed 
out  through  the  palace  gates. 

There  were  few  lights  in  the  close-built  town,  on 
hillocks  or  in  valleys  where  roofs  pressed  together. 
Pierre  glanced  up  at  the  Roman  towers  where  Jacques 
Cosur's  new  chateau  was  to  be  founded.  No  wonder 
the  king  loved  Bourges.  How  pleasant  and  hospitable 
was  the  province  of  Berri !  There  had  been  a  fore- 
casting in  his  mind  that,  in  spite  of  all  drawbacks, 
some  good  awaited  him  in  Berri. 


XIV 

HE  May  afternoon  was  waning  in  Com- 
piegne. It  had  been  a  golden  day  for  the 
north  provinces  at  that  season  of  the  year, 
and  the  city  was  put  in  a  joyful  stir  by 
the  coming  of  the  pucelle.  She  had  arrived  at  dawn, 
with  about  five  hundred  men,  from  Crepy,  and  entered 
on  the  south  side,  unseen  by  the  besiegers  on  the 
north.  Splendidly  mounted  and  equipped,  her  saddle- 
cloth made  of  cloth  of  gold,  a  crimson  levite  belted 
over  her  armor,  her  standard  displayed,  she  cantered 
with  her  troops  toward  the  bridge  gate ;  for  it  had  been 
concerted  with  the  Captain  of  Compiegne  that  she 
should  strike  and  surprise  the  Burgundians  at  Margny 
before  the  sun  went  down,  cutting  off  the  farther  camp 
of  Claroix  from  the  English  at  Venette. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  the  maid  had  been  seen  in 
Compiegne  since  Easter.  In  April,  when  English 
captains  were  about  to  embark  fresh  troops  for  France, 
they  refused  to  go.  "The  witch  is  out  again,"  they 
declared  to  their  angry  officers.  "  It  is  true  she  hath 
not  been  seen  in  the  north  since  autumn ;  but  soldiers 
have  this  feeling  only  when  she  is  afield."  They  de- 

237 


238  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

serted  in  crowds.  Beating  and  imprisonment  had  no 
effect  on  them.  Only  those  who  could  not  escape  were 
forced  on  board. 

Then  the  Duke  of  Bedford  heard  the  maid  was  ac- 
tually at  Melun,  and  had  helped  the  inhabitants  drive 
out  the  English  garrison.  As  swiftly,  she  was  at 
Lagny-sur-Marne,  striking  English  marauders.  She 
had  leaped  again  into  the  field,  for  there  had  never  been 
any  truce  with  the  invaders,  and  Charles's  truce  with 
the  Duke  of  Burgundy  expired  at  Easter.  The  French 
were  renewing  their  struggle  without  the  king.  The 
Bastard  of  Orleans,  who  had  been  made  Count  Dunois, 
was  pushing,  with  the  Due  d'Alenc.on,  toward  St. 
Denis.  At  first  it  was  told  in  terrified  Paris  that  the 
maid  was  coming  to  renew  her  attack.  She  certainly 
attempted,  both  by  Soissons  and  Pont-1'Eveque,  to 
break  her  way  southward.  But  Compiegne,  the  most 
important  town  of  northern  France,  often  besieged  and 
harried  by  the  invaders,  holding  fast  to  its  loyalty,  was 
at  this  time  threatened  by  both  Burgundians  and  Eng- 
lish. The  French  captains  flocked  to  the  maid.  The 
Duke  of  Bedford  at  once  issued  a  proclamation  against 
soldiers  and  officers  who  should  "  be  terrified  by  the 
enchantments  of  this  pucelle." 

Her  squire  and  the  Chevalier  du  Lys,  her  brother, 
knew  with  what  force  she  had  sprung  into  the  field. 
They  rode  alone  with  her  out  of  Sully-sur-Loire  with- 
out the  king's  knowledge  or  consent,  a  few  needful 
things  strapped  behind  their  high  saddle-backs.  It 
was  a  three-days'  ride  to  Melun  across  rough  country 
and  up  the  long  ridge  of  Fontainebleau  forest.  Pierre 
thought  with  hatred  of  Sully-sur-Loire,  the  most  in- 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC  239 

hospitable  place  in  France— a  many-towered  castle, 
with  pointed  roofs,  and  curtains  of  stone,  rising  from 
a  river-like  moat.  It  stood  beside  the  Loire ;  but  how 
dreary  was  the  great  river  at  Sully,  running  deep  along 
the  high  bank,  and  spreading  far  off  in  shallows,  seem- 
ing to  cut  France  off  from  the  north ! 

At  Sully,  Pierre  had  watched  day  after  day  in  vain 
for  Madeleine  Power.  The  morning  the  court  left 
Bourges  he  was  early  afoot,  determined  to  press  his 
suit  again ;  but  a  page  wearing  the  De  Beuil  li very  came 
to  him  with  a  message  for  the  pucelle.  The  demoiselle 
Power  sent  word  that  her  marriage  was  to  be  post- 
poned, and  she  was  to  join  the  court  at  Sully.  So  easy 
was  it  for  Pierre  to  believe  what  was  told  him  that  he 
suspected  no  trick,  until  La  Tremouille's  insolent  hos- 
pitality, which  made  every  mouthful  of  bread  bitter, 
forced  the  truth  upon  him.  Madeleine  Power  was  not 
brought  to  Sully,  and  he  heard  no  more  of  her.  He 
thought  of  dashing  out  by  himself  to  Loches.  But  if 
he  were  there,  what  had  he  to  offer  a  demoiselle  who 
had  merely  looked  at  him  ?  Should  he  carry  her  off  by 
violence  ? 

"Pierrelo,"  Jeanne  once  said  to  him,  "do  you  re- 
member the  huge  red  snails  around  Bermont  spring  ? 
They  must  be  creeping  forth ;  and  all  the  Meuse  valley 
is  quickening  with  green.  I  cannot  stay  here  idling 
any  longer,  where  we  are  not  wanted,  and  so  little  time 
remains  to  me." 

"  God  he  knoweth  I  have  no  stomach  for  this  place," 
answered  Pierre,  "  and  less  care  what  becomes  of  me 
now,  so  I  go  free  of  it."  What  lonelier  spot  was  there 
in  France  than  this  old  village  of  worm-eaten  carved 


240  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

timbers,  clustering  around  a  feudal  stronghold  ?  And 
how  delicious  was  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau  after 
Sully-sur-Loire ! 

The  second  night  the  three  riders  came  to  a  deep 
oval  valley  in  the  forest,  a  vast  cup  of  white  and  gray 
rock.  Sunset  was  behind  as  they  descended  into  the 
gorge,  a  pink  flame  mounting  the  sky  sparkles  upon 
sparkles,  the  rosy  smoke  sweeping  the  zenith.  And 
when  they  had  picked  their  way  across,  and  ascended 
to  the  opposite  forest  level,  there,  in  sand  as  soft  as 
ashes,  rock  turned  to  dust  without  grain,  stood  ruined 
walls  which  they  knew  to  be  the  ancient  abbey  of 
Franchard,  to  which  a  peasant  had  directed  them  as  a 
landmark.  There  was  enough  roof  to  shelter  them  for 
the  night.  They  heard  the  bubblings  of  nightingales ; 
and  near  them  were  moss-crusted  elms  dropping  finger- 
tips of  branches  almost  to  the  ground,  white-pillared, 
forming  cathedral  naves  in  the  forest;  white  birch, 
pine,  and  oaks;  hills  and  dales  of  springing  fern. 
Jeanne  closed  her  eyes,  thinking  how  near  also  was 
Paris ;  and  Bertrand  closed  his,  contented  to  be  any- 
where with  her. 

To  Bertrand  this  was  the  happy  spring  of  his  life. 
He  felt  riding  to  heaven  alone  with  her,  for  Pierre  was 
moody,  and  lagged.  She  had  grown  so  accustomed  to 
his  tendance  that  there  was  communion  between  them 
without  talk.  He  had  her  to  himself,  depending  on  his 
presence,  while  the  English  began  to  feel  the  coming  ter- 
ror. She  told  him  before  she  told  Pierre  that  her  voices 
had  warned  her  she  was  to  be  taken  prisoner  before  St. 
John's  day.  Always  reticent  in  speaking  about  this 
unseen  counsel,  she  sometimes  turned  a  startled  face 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  241 

toward  Bertrand  as  they  rode.  Her  lips  parted ;  her 
lifted  eyes  filled  with  light.  He  held  his  breath. 

This  twenty-third  day  of  May  in  Compiegne  his  near- 
ness to  her  was  incredibly  crowned.  Jeanne  and  Pierre 
and  Bertrand  took  the  sacrament  in  the  church  of  St. 
Jacques  at  the  morning  mass,  kneeling  in  the  fifth 
small  chapel  from  the  entrance,  on  the  right-hand  side 
of  the  church.  As  they  passed  into  the  aisle  it  hap- 
pened that  the  bells  began  to  chime.  Bertrand  and 
Jeanne  both  lifted  their  faces.  Did  he  hear  a  faint 
tone  of  some  unearthly  voice— a  sweet,  still  articula- 
tion under  the  clamor  ? 

Jeanne  leaned,  pallid,  against  a  pillar  opposite  the 
chapel.  The  paneled  and  flower-carven  wood,  support- 
ing shorter  stone  pillars  near  the  clerestory,  threw  her 
face  into  relief.  At  once  the  early  worshipers  in  St. 
Jacques's  church  drew  toward  her  smiling,  and  some 
of  them  secretly  touched  her.  Bertrand  had  seen  her 
stand  godmother  to  many  a  baby  during  her  cam- 
paigns, and  every  boy  that  she  held  was  christened 
Charles,  for  the  king. 

"  My  friends,"  spoke  out  Jeanne,  "  I  am  soon  to  be 
taken  and  sold  into  captivity,  and  then  I  can  never 
again  have  it  in  my  power  to  help  France  and  the  king. 
Pray  for  me." 

Bertrand  remembered  what  awe  struck  through  the 
listening  faces.  But  the  people  of  Compiegne  could 
not  think  of  such  forecasting  when  the  pucelle  rode  out 
to  make  her  attack  on  Margny. 

"  Did  you  know,"  Bertrand  inquired,  as  he  helped  her 
mount,  "  this  Captain  of  Compiegne  was  appointed  to 
his  post  by  favor  of  La  Tremouille?" 

16 


242  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

The  maid  looked  startled  at  her  squire.  "  No,  I  did 
not.  But  for  the  honor  of  France  he  is  bound  to  sup- 
port us  in  this  sally.  En  nom  De,  if  I  thought  I  should 
be  taken  at  this  time  I  would  not  go  out.  God  grant 
I  may  perish  when  I  am  taken,  for  it  is  far  easier  to 
trust  my  soul  to  him  than  my  body  to  the  English. 
But  St.  Jean's  day  is  a  month  distant,  and  we  must  do 
all  we  can." 

Poton  de  Xantrailles  rode  beside  her,  and  the  setting 
sun  shone  on  the  left  side  of  their  faces  as  they  gal- 
loped over  the  lowered  drawbridge  and  the  rosy  Oise, 
where  archers  were  taking  to  boats  to  support  the  at- 
tack from  the  river. 

The  Oise  flows  southwestward,  and  Compiegne  is  on 
the  left  bank.  A  fortified  bridge  then  joined  it  to  the 
northeast  shore,  where  defensive  works  were  further 
guarded  by  a  deep  f oss.  Over  this  a  stationary  bridge 
was  built,  and  it  seemed  the  entrance  to  a  high  cause- 
way stretching  across  the  marshy  meadows.  In  the 
north,  bounding  the  wet  land,  was  a  low  range  of  hills. 
Straight  ahead,  beyond  the  causeway,  could  be  seen 
the  church  tower  of  Margny,  a  third  of  a  league  from 
Compiegne,  and  there  lay  the  Burgundian  camp  she 
meant  to  strike.  Beyond  that,  and  at  twice  the  dis- 
tance, was  Clairoix,  the  second  Burgundian  camp,  which 
she  meant,  by  this  quick  blow  at  an  unexpected  hour, 
to  cut  off  from  the  English  camp  at  Venette,  a  half- 
league  to  the  west  of  her  route. 

The  archers  in  the  boats  saluted  the  pucelle  as  the 
armor  of  her  troops  flashed  across  the  Oise  bridge. 
Five  hundred  strong,  the  attacking  party  took  at  speed 
the  long  line  of  the  causeway.  A  little  lower  and  a 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  243 

little  ruddier,' the  level-lying  sun  touched  the  walls  of 
Compiegne  and  the  great  forest  lying  behind  them.  It 
promised  to  be  a  pleasant  May  twilight,  clear  and  fair. 
The  waiting  bowmen  laughed  and  talked  to  one  an- 
other, even  after  the  noise  of  combat  reached  them 
from  Margny.  The  pucelle  would  doubtless  bring  in 
many  prisoners.  The  Duke  of  Burgundy  was  himself 
said  to  be  at  Clairoix,  and  a  surprised  duke  would  he 
be  when  he  found  himself  suddenly  cut  off  from  his 
allies  at  Venette. 

People  on  the  walls  of  Compiegne  could  see  what  the 
archers  at  the  river  level  could  not  see.  Venette  was 
aroused  by  the  clamor  in  Margny.  English  troops 
were  streaming  out  to  attack  the  French  rear.  Gun- 
ners on  the  walls  made  haste  to  train  cannon  which 
they  dared  not  fire,  and  the  silenced  archers  in  the  boats 
made  ready  shafts  which  they  dare  not  discharge.  For 
back  came  French  and  English  together,  pell-mell, 
crowding  the  causeway,  pushed  off  into  the  marsh,  a 
fighting,  struggling  mass,  the  Burgundians  of  Margny 
pressing  behind ;  and  the  Captain  of  Compiegne  did 
nothing. 

The  archers,  unable  to  shoot  without  wounding  their 
friends,  gathered  refugees  into  the  boats.  Alarm-bells 
were  rung  in  the  city ;  men  and  women  ran  to  the  open 
gates.  The  pucelle  and  her  body-guard  could  be  seen 
covering  the  rear  of  her  panic-stricken  troops.  Now 
she  rode  back  and  lashed  the  pursuers,  and  now  she 
turned  to  rally  her  own  soldiers.  Her  brother  and  her 
squire  and  De  Xantrailles,  the  one  captain  who  never 
left  her,  pressing  around  her,  fought  with  desperate 
courage.  Shouts  and  the  clang  of  weapons  seemed  to 


244:  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

fill  that  little  sunset  world.  The  entrance  to  the  Oise 
bridge  was  wedged  with  struggling  bodies,  and  horses 
trampled  their  own  dying  riders.  The  pucelle,  when 
she  could  no  longer  cover  her  troops,  conspicuous  in 
her  crimson  garment,  was  seen  to  make  a  dash  for 
the  marshes.  Surrounded  by  Burgundians,  she  was 
dragged  from  her  plunging  horse  by  her  robe,  and  yells 
upon  yells  of  triumph  drowned  the  noise  of  battle.  The 
pucelle  was  taken !  It  would  be  shouted  long  after 
nightf  ah1  at  Clairoix  by  drunken  soldiers,  and  repeated 
with  joyful  derision  from  camp  to  camp.  The  witch 
was  caught.  Trumpets  which  usually  called  to  arms 
shrieked  discordant  fanfares  over  this  great  prisoner. 
Captains  taken  with  her  counted  as  nothing;  they 
might  easily  ransom  themselves.  But  the  witch  of  the 
Armagnacs,  worth  more  than  the  ransom  of  a  king,— 
the  terror  of  England,— was  at  last  a  captive,  dragged 
off  to  the  Burgundian  camp.  The  Duke  of  Burgundy 
would  that  very  hour  send  out  despatches  bearing  the 
news  to  the  regent  and  all  Christendom. 

Men  and  women  of  Compiegne  ran  struggling  across 
the  Oise  bridge,  as  the  mob  of  soldiers  cleared  away, 
to  fall  with  any  weapon  on  the  rear  of  their  retreating 
foes.  What  did  English  and  Burgundians  care  at  that 
moment  for  Compiegne  ?  They  had  done  enough  that 
great  day.  The  inspired  maid  was  taken ! 

It  was  four  days  afterward  that  Jeanne  turned  in 
her  saddle  to  watch  that  dear  town  of  Compiegne  grow 
less  in  the  distance,  as  she  rode  among  her  captors 
northward  along  the  course  of  the  Oise.  A  score  of 
men-at-arms  guarded  her,  and  wherever  a  device  ap- 
peared on  their  housings,  it  was  the  rampant  two-tailed 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  245 

lion  of  Burgundy.  Wooded  hills  lay  along  the  horizon 
at  their  left,  and  at  their  right,  in  the  low  ground, 
flowed  the  pleasant  Oise. 

Jeanne  could  not  speak  to  her  squire,  for  he  was  held 
in  charge  by  troopers  at  the  rear ;  but  she  took  comfort 
from  the  thought,  "  We  are  prisoners  to  the  Burgun- 
dians,  not  to  the  English.  While  the  Lord  of  Luxem- 
bourg, a  vassal  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  holds  us  to 
ransom,  it  might  be  worse  with  us." 

Pierre  and  De  Xantrailles  were  yet  in  the  camp  at 
Clairoix,  lightly  wounded.  She  hoped  she  was  not  go- 
ing far  from  them ;  but  late  in  the  day  the  cavalcade 
passed  Noyon,  winding  among  the  path-like  streets  of 
the  ancient  gray  town.  Huge  white  oxen,  yoked  by 
the  horns  in  many  pairs,  were  crowded  to  the  walls  to 
let  them  go  by.  The  people  of  Noyon  ran  to  look  at 
the  captive  pucelle  paraded  to  their  sight ;  and  some 
were  sorrowful,  while  others,  having  it  in  mind  to  stand 
well  with  Burgundy,  shouted  as  she  rode  with  her  head 
bowed.  Charlemagne  had  been  crowned  in  Noyon. 

Bertrand  noticed  with  dull  attention  the  carved 
beam-ends  and  oaken  cross-pieces  in  house-fronts,  and 
the  little  leaded  windows.  Beyond  Noyon  he  made  a 
landmark  of  every  windmill  standing  with  spread  arms 
against  the  fading  sky.  Neither  Jeanne  nor  he  had 
given  their  parole  not  to  escape ;  but  there  was  small 
hope  of  escape.  Both  were  mounted  on  poor  horses, 
the  refuse  of  the  camp. 

The  moist  May  night  closed  over  half-desolate  fields 
as  they  turned  westward  into  a  path  lined  with  no  vil- 
lages and  no  lights.  Remote  and  lonely  exile  waited 
behind  unknown  horizons.  It  grew  chill,  and  the  jaded 


246  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

horses  lagged  until  they  heard  the  barking  of  a  dog. 
A  cluster  of  houses  where  no  fires  burned  skirted  the 
way.  Then  a  moat  showed  its  livid  water  on  the  right 
hand,  as  the  party  mounted  a  short  ascent  and  turned 
into  an  orchard. 

"What  place  is  this?"  inquired  Bertrand  of  his 
guards. 

"  This  is  the  tower  of  Beaulieu." 

"  I  see  no  tower." 

But  as  they  drew  nearer  to  a  drawbridge  he  saw  its 
low  top  against  the  sky.  It  was  a  round  tower  of  brick, 
at  one  end  of  a  long  dusky  chateau.  The  only  lights 
came  through  two  south  windows  of  this  tower.  The 
cavalcade  called  impatient  curses  on  the  keeper  before 
the  gates  were  opened.  Bertrand  noticed,  as  they  rode 
across  the  lowered  drawbridge,  which  came  down  creak- 
ing on  its  unused  chains  to  meet  them,  an  oblong  hole 
in  the  bricks,  about  three  feet  above  the  water  in  the 
moat,  made  noticeable  by  shine  reflected  from  a  wall 
within. 

One  old  man  held  up  a  candle  in  the  brick-paved 
court,  where  the  horses  were  crowded  against  one  an- 
other, so  near  was  the  opposite  wall,  and  he  smiled 
without  teeth  at  the  liberal  abuse  he  received  as  he 
locked  the  gates  under  the  archway  again. 

Thought  Bertrand,  "This  does  not  seem  a  strong 
place." 

"Now,  Messire  d'Aulon,"  said  the  captain  of  the 
escort,  using  the  name  which  Bertrand  had  given  at 
his  capture,  "  you  will  do  your  last  service  to  the  maid, 
and  disarm  her." 

The  servants  of  the  party  led  away  the  horses. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC  247 

Jeanne  was  already  in  the  tower,  and  her  squire  fol- 
lowed her.  She  had  been  stripped  in  camp  of  her 
crimson  levite,  her  courser,  and  cloth-of-gold  saddle- 
housings,  but  the  Lord  of  Luxembourg,  her  captor, 
had  allowed  her  to  remain  in  her  armor,  according  to 
her  custom  among  men  in  the  field. 

Many  spurs  jingled  on  the  paved  floor,  and  as  soon 
as  the  jailer  had  turned  a  huge  key  behind  the  pris- 
oner, her  escort,  taking  candles,  and  bidding  him  bring 
them  firing  and  supper  in  fewer  minutes  than  it  had 
required  to  open  the  gates,  trooped  through  another 
door  into  the  chateau. 

Opposite  this  door  in  the  tower  was  a  high,  shallow 
fireplace  with  an  oven  beside  it.  On  the  pot-hanger 
hung  a  seething  kettle.  The  lazy  blaze  and  the  old 
man's  candle  showed  brown  timbers  and  many  cross- 
pieces  hung  with  cobwebs  overhead,  flooring  the  con- 
cave of  the  tower,  and  roofing  the  circular  walls.  A 
table,  a  bench,  a  kind  of  lair  which  could  not  be  called 
a  bed,  and  some  cooking- vessels,  were  all  the  furniture. 

Jeanne  stood  spreading  her  hands  before  the  blaze 
while  Bertrand  knelt  to  unbuckle  her  mail.  Her  supple 
body  drooped.  He  did  not  let  himself  say,  "  This  is 
the  last  time  I  shall  take  off  her  harness,"  but  his  fin- 
gers fondled  every  strap.  The  cleft  between  her  lower 
lip  and  chin  seemed  more  deeply  indented  than  ever, 
and  her  eyes  were  weary.  She  was  recalling  the  dark 
face  and  broad-tipped  nose  of  Philip  of  Burgundy,  sur- 
named  the  Good,  whom  her  king  in  youth  had  offended 
with  deadly  offense.  Her  usual  distrust  of  him,  which 
the  magnificent  man  in  black  velvet  had  courteously 
shaken  by  a  few  words  of  pride  in  her,  —being  French 


248  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

himself,  and  unable  to  repress  them,— had  begun  to 
revive.  She  was  prisoner  to  Burgundy's  vassal;  but 
would  he  stand  between  her  and  the  English  ? 

The  old  man,  trotting  from  side  to  side  of  the  tower, 
paused  with  his  back  and  hands  laden  as  Bertrand  said 
to  him  sternly : 

"  Before  you  carry  fire  or  food  to  rough  men-at-arms, 
your  duty  is  to  the  pucelle.  For  this  unmannerly 
treatment  of  such  a  prisoner  your  Lord  of  Luxem- 
bourg will  hold  you  to  account." 

Opening  and  shutting  his  mouth  with  indecision, 
the  jailer  put  down  his  loads,  and  dipped  broth  from 
his  kettle,  and  put  wine  and  bread  on  the  table,  taking 
them  from  a  kind  of  buttery  within  the  chateau  door. 
He  pacified  with  high-pitched  voice  impatient  calls  for 
his  service  ringing  through  empty  rooms  beyond. 

"Where  is  the  pucelle  to  lodge?"  asked  the  squire, 
laying  down  the  last  piece  of  her  armor. 

The  old  man  beckoned,  and  trotted  with  his  candle 
down  three  steps  at  the  left  side  of  the  chimney,  Jeanne 
and  Bertrand  following.  He  thrust  the  light  beside 
an  iron-clamped  oaken  door  over  three  steps  at  right 
angles  to  the  first  descent,  showing  behind  the  fire- 
place a  vaulted  cell,  about  six  feet  high  and  nine  feet 
long  and  less  than  three  feet  wide.  They  could  hear 
the  lapping  of  the  moat  through  that  slit  in  the  wall 
which  Bertrand  had  noticed  as  he  crossed  the  draw- 
bridge, and  which  let  in  all  the  air  a  prisoner  could 
hope  for  when  the  door  was  shut  and  locked.  The 
floor  was  stone.  The  farther  end  of  the  cell  was  con- 
cave. 

"  I  have  lain  hard  many  a  time,"  said  Jeanne,  laugh- 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  249 

ing,  "but  never  before  was  I  put  to  sleep  in  a 
tomb." 

"  The  pucelle  is  not  to  be  lodged  in  this  dungeon  ? '' 

Her  keeper  nodded. 

"  Let  me  lie  here,"  entreated  Bertrand.  ' '  There  must 
be  better  places  in  a  chateau  for  a  noble  maid." 

"You,  messire?"  chuckled  the  old  man.  "Who 
cares  to  hold  you  ?  That  is  simply  a  matter  of  ransom 
between  you  and  your  captor.  But  this  is  the  witch 
of  the  Armagnacs." 

" Have  you  no  fear  of  her?" 

The  jailer  shook  his  head  hardily.  "  I  am  a  Chris- 
tian man." 

"  I  have  known  men  who  called  themselves  so,  yet 
they  durst  not  move  hand  or  foot  when  they  would 
approach  her,"  whispered  the  squire  at  the  old  man's 
ear  as  he  ascended  the  steps  behind  that  disturbed  ser- 
vitor. 

The  men-at-arms  were  by  this  time  clamoring  in 
such  wrath  that  he  seized  his  loads  again  and  ran 
through  the  chateau  rooms. 

"  Quick !  "  whispered  Bertrand,  holding  the  bowl  of 
broth  to  Jeanne.  She  understood  him,  and  swallowed. 
He  put  some  pieces  of  bread  in  his  pouch  while  she 
drank.  The  jailer's  steps  had  not  passed  out  of  hear- 
ing, on  resounding  floors  within,  when  both  prisoners 
were  outside,  locking  the  door  behind  them. 

They  turned  toward  the  front  of  the  chateau,  for 
there  seemed  no  way  except  this.  So  habitually  had 
Jeanne  let  herself  be  guided  by  others,  since  the  warn- 
ing of  capture  had  followed  her,  that  she  took  no 
thought  but  Bertrand's,  and  stooped  as  he  did,  running 


250  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

under  the  windows.  Damp  greenness,  gathered  on  the 
outlines  of  old  bricks,  came  to  their  nostrils.  A  wall 
bounded  them  on  the  left,  and  it  turned  at  right  angles 
on  a  walk  which  led  to  a  gate  at  the  top  of  a  terrace. 
The  gate  was  fast,  but  it  was  low,  and  both  scrambled 
over  it.  A  high  balustrade  of  brick  with  a  coping  of 
stone  guarded  one  side  of  the  stairs ;  a  wall  guarded 
the  other. 

They  were  feeling  their  way  downward  into  the 
moist  darkness  when  Bertrand  turned  and  caught 
Jeanne's  hands.  He  saw  the  dim  guards  below,  but 
they  had  also  seen  him.  Shouts  of  warders,  oaths, 
and  the  rattle  of  swords  leaping  from  scabbards  drove 
them  back  over  the  gate.  The  front  of  the  chateau 
flashed  with  candles,  and  men  dropped  from  the  low 
windows. 

The  prisoners,  grasped  by  many  hands,  faced  each 
other  in  one  look  before  they  were  separated.  All 
Bertrand's  patience  and  faithfulness  and  self-restraint, 
and  his  sympathy  like  a  discerning  god's,  the  maid 
owned  and  blessed  as  she  lost  them.  The  dungeon 
closed  upon  her.  She  heard  no  sound  but  the  lapping 
of  the  moat. 


XV 


HE  Old  World's  reek,  a  stench  left  by  death 
and  ignorance  and  sudden  flight,  met  a 
party  of  knights  and  men-at-arms  at  the 
entrance  of  a  village.  Coney  Castle  could 
yet  be  seen  in  the  wooded  world  behind  them.  The 
village  was  empty,  and  as  silent  as  the  withered  bush 
hanging  in  front  of  what  had  been  the  wine-shop.  No 
dog  barked  at  the  cavalcade,  and  the  late  afternoon 
sun  probed  desolate  houses  through  the  open  doors. 
But  deserted  villages  were  common  in  northern  France. 
This  one  was  intersected  by  a  road  coming  from  the 
west,  and  at  its  junction  with  the  road  from  Coucy 
the  men  drew  rein  and  screened  themselves  by  the 
church  wall.  Two  archers  dismounted,  and  went  along 
the  bending  street,  stooping  to  examine  marks  in  the 
dust. 

"  English,"  said  one  of  them,  pointing  with  his  bow 
end  at  many  hoof-prints  having  a  triangular  shape. 
Horseshoes  made  in  France  were  round,  but  the  Eng- 
lish horseshoes  had  a  broader  base  of  iron,  forming  a 
triangle  in  the  center. 

"  Here  be  the  tracks  left  by  Messire  du  Lys's  troop," 

251 


252  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

said  the  other  archer,  and  they  went  back  with  their 
information. 

Both  captains  pushed  up  their  pointed  vizors,  show- 
ing disturbed  faces.  ' '  By  my  baton,"  swore  the  broad- 
backed  knight,  "  if  the  pucelle's  guards  have  escaped 
us,  Poton,  La  Hire  will  curse  thee  as  no  fit  man  to  lead 
a  sortie." 

"  What  have  these  shoe-prints  to  do  with  the  pucelle's 
guards  ? "  returned  De  Xantrailles.  "  Her  guards  are 
Burgundians,  the  vassals  of  Luxembourg.  Mounted 
on  English-shod  coursers  they  may  be ;  but  by  this 
token  there  is  more  than  one  troop  to  meet,  and  the 
Chevalier  du  Lys  will  find  himself  hard  pressed  on  the 
north  road." 

"What  certain  information  have  you  that  the  pu- 
celle  is  to  be  removed  from  Beaulieu  tower  at  this 
time?" 

"  It  is  not  a  far  cry  from  Beaulieu  to  Coucy.  The 
place  hath  been  watched  for  me  nearly  three  months, 
and  I  know  that  Luxembourg  is  about  to  carry  her  to 
his  chateau  of  Beaurevoir  in  the  north.  It  hath  a 
strong  high  tower.  If  you  had  come  to  my  help  sooner 
we  might  have  broken  into  Beaulieu." 

"  Come  to  thy  help  sooner  ?  Had  not  La  Hire  enough 
to  do  to  hold  his  own  town  of  Louviers,  in  the  very 
teeth  of  Rouen,  where  the  English  have  their  strong- 
hold?" 

"  And  not  a  coin  didst  thou  send  to  my  ransom/' 
continued  De  Xantrailles,  his  wrath  gathering.  "  By 
hardship  did  I  get  free,  for  I  never  made  myself  rich 
with  pillage,  and  the  country  is  destroyed,  as  thou  dost 
see,  around  Coucy.  The  pucelle's  ransom  I  could  not 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  253 

pay,  but  I  sent  a  messenger  at  once  to  the  king  show- 
ing her  state.  It  was  only  this  month  that  I  was 
able  to  exchange  some  prisoners  I  had  taken  for  her 
brother  and  her  squire ;  and  they  added  the  churchman, 
Brother  Pasquerel,  her  confessor,  who,  since  he  is  also 
ordained  to  priestly  offices,  my  mother  hath  employed 
at  Coucy.  By  St.  Martin,  I  have  been  too  poor  this 
summer  to  pay  for  mass  and  candles." 

"  Is  La  Hire  rich  himself  ?  In  running  this  venture 
he  hath  scarce  a  coin  in  his  strong  box  stored  against 
need.  And  Louviers  is  a  slippery  holding,  while  Coucy 
is  impregnable,  only  to  be  taken  by  surprise.  And 
against  all  counsel  thou  didst  leave  it  open  to  surprise, 
with  so  few  warders,  when  we  rode  away." 

"Since  Compiegne  I  have  few  warders  to  leave. 
By  St.  Martin,  I  cannot  make  men-at-arms." 

"And  if  thou  couldst,  they  were  better  patterned 
on  another  than  thyself." 

"I  wish  I  had  the  making  of  thee  over,"  said  De 
Xantrailles,  savagely.  "I  would  not  use  a  damned 
atom  of  thy  old  substance." 

La  Hire  sat  stiff,  a  head  and  shoulders  below  his 
friend,  and  glared  at  De  Xantrailles. 

"What  hath  La  Hire  ever  seen  in  Poton  de  Xan- 
trailles to  love  ? " 

"  A  well-made  man,  one  able  to  sit  down  without 
holding  a  great  lapful  of  bowels." 

"  "Well  made,  thou  sayest  ?  Can  a  man  call  himself 
well  made  who  knows  not  hunger  from  the  back- 
ache ? " 

Having  reached  this  pitch  of  disagreement,  both 
knights  laughed  in  the  hollows  of  their  casques.  Their 


254  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

retinues,  accustomed  to  the  pair,  kept  guard,  and 
watched  around  the  church  wall  for  the  approach  of 
the  pucelle. 

"  Where  is  the  young  Chevalier  du  Lys,  that  he  was 
not  left  in  charge  of  Coucy  ? " 

"  Have  I  not  told  thee  many  times  I  sent  him  out 
with  part  of  my  retinue  to  watch  the  northern  road 
from  Beaulieu,  while  we  take  the  southern  ? " 

"  If  La  Hire  had  reached  Coucy  in  time,  that  had 
been  better  ordered." 

"  Who  made  thee  captain  over  me,  fitienne  de  Vig- 
nolles?" 

"  God  Almighty,"  shouted  La  Hire,  standing  up  in 
his  stirrups.  "  He  gave  thee  length  of  legs  and  arms, 
but  no  head ;  for  saith  he  to  himself,  '  The  fool  will 
lose  it.  Let  us  make  it  a  separate  member,  and  call 
it  La  Hire.'" 

"  Fat-witted  I  was  never  called  before,"  sneered  Po- 
ton  de  Xantrailles.  "  It  doth  cut  me  to  the  heart." 

"  Whoever  doth  cut  thee  to  the  heart  will  find  no 
blood  on  his  knife,"  retorted  La  Hire.  "Where  is 
Bertrand  de  Poulengy  ?  Did  you  send  the  squire  also 
with  the  chevalier  ? " 

"  Since  I  must  read  you  the  tale  of  all  my  men,  Ber- 
trand de  Poulengy  hath  been  my  spy  on  Beaulieu  since 
he  came  to  Coucy,  and  it  is  he  that  I  now  expect  to 
give  me  warning  of  the  maid's  approach.  He  hath  a 
good  horse  under  him." 

"  That  was  not  ill  planned." 

"  God  be  praised,"  said  Poton  de  Xantrailles,  "  that 
one  device  at  least  was  not  ill  planned." 

"  Yea ;  amen ;  though  La  Hire  dreads  winning  by 


THE  DAYS  OF   JEANNE  D'ARC  255 

this  ride  a  bed  that  will  cool  him  after  the  fever  in 
Louviers." 

"  In  God's  name,  if  you  were  laid  low  with  a  fever, 
La  Hire,  why  have  you  let  me  accuse  you  ? " 

"To  ease  thee,  Poton,  to  ease  thee.  It  was  the 
wound  taken  with  Louviers.  All  flesh  is  not  the  flesh 
of  the  pucelle,  that  closes  in  four  or  five  days." 

"  Well,  then,  a  truce  to  words  between  us.  It  put 
me  in  a  rage  to  ride  alone,  when  we  have  fought  elbow 
to  elbow  so  long." 

"  Slit  La  Hire's  tongue  if  he  has  offended  thee,  Poton. 
Thou  art  the  bride  and  the  son  of  a  ruffian,  but  the 
ruffian  loves  thee." 

"  I  am  but  half  a  knight  without  you,"  acknowledged 
De  Xantrailles.  "  If  you  had  been  at  Compiegne  the 
pucelle  had  not  been  taken." 

"  La  Hire  is  no  amulet  to  keep  off  evil ;  but  what- 
ever befalls  at  Coucy,  his  hand  is  in  thine." 

They  embraced  each  other  as  well  as  they  could  in 
armor  and  on  horseback,  and  swore  that  this  should 
be  their  first  and  last  tilt  with  words.  Their  retinues, 
who  had  heard  many  first  and  last  tilts  with  words, 
smiled  idly,  and  pulled  leaves  to  chew,  or  struck  at 
floating  mosquitos.  The  horses  moved  restless  feet, 
for  time  was  passing ;  and  the  sun  shone  horizontally 
across  the  village,  throwing  longer  shadows  with  the 
stone  houses  on  unplanted  fields. 

Its  light  dazzled  the  men's  eyes,  and  they  drew  their 
lids  together,  watching  through  slits  for  the  cavalcade 
on  which  they  intended  to  pounce.  Some  of  them  had 
ridden  with  their  masters  to  Rheims,  and  they  remem- 
bered the  pucelle's  compassion  on  the  French  prisoners 


256  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

at  Troyes.  She  would  not  permit  the  English  garri- 
son to  carry  them  away.  So  intently  had  the  waiting 
troops  fixed  their  minds  on  the  west  that  clashing  arms 
and  a  whirlwind  of  pursuit  through  the  crooked  north- 
ern street  took  them  unawares. 

The  Chevalier  du  Lys  came  into  sight,  fighting  and 
flying  with  a  handful  of  men  before  a  full  retinue  of 
English.  La  Hire  saw  with  rage  that  there  was  a  con- 
certed ambush ;  for  behind,  on  the  Coucy  road,  gal- 
loped another  company  of  English. 

It  was  the  evening-time  when  maids  drove  in  their 
geese  and  peasants  with  laden  panniers  appeared  from 
the  fields.  This  untenauted  village,  this  graveyard  of 
the  people,  was  filled  with  a  brief  resurrection ;  but  it 
was  the  lif  e  of  war— battle-cries,  the  scream  of  slaugh- 
tered horses,  the  encounter,  ax  to  ax,  sword  to  sword, 
club  against  club.  Coucy  had  been  taken  by  surprise, 
and  the  French  were  surrounded.  At  dusk  victors  and 
prisoners,  all  who  were  not  left  to  increase  the  breath 
of  pestilence  among  empty  stone  houses,  moved  up  the 
ascent  to  Coucy  Castle.  An  English  warder  raised  the 
portcullis  and  let  down  the  drawbridge. 

So  sudden  and  ruinous  had  been  the  result  of  this 
sortie  that  Pierre  beheld  the  facts  around  him  with 
slow  receptiveness,  a  peasant's  inability  to  compass  the 
unusual  returning  upon  him.  He  saw  La  Hire  and  De 
Xantrailles  led  to  the  dungeons — Jeanne's  two  friends 
—the  only  friends  of  all  her  thousands  who  had  made 
any  attempt  to  rescue  her.  And  he  heard  De  Xan- 
trailles's  mother  weeping  aloud  among  her  women. 
And  Coucy,  the  great  seat  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans, 
vaster  and  more  beautiful  than  any  other  feudal  hold 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  257 

in  the  dismembered  kingdom,  full  of  such  gathered 
art  in  marble  and  paintings  as  comforted  men  who 
had  little  to  live  for,  a  palace  suited  with  everything 
known  as  luxury,  a  fortress  proof  against  assault,  had 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  English. 

Pierre's  captors  began  to  strip  off  his  armor  in  the 
court.  There  were  many  of  them,  talking  English  and 
Franco-Norman,  and  the  hubbub  calmed  him.  They 
seemed  to  have  many  prisoners,  and  to  have  swept 
much  country  in  every  direction  around  Coucy.  Free 
companions  were  among  these  regular  troops ;  he  saw 
faces  scowling  at  him  that  he  traced  slowly  back  to 
Lagny-sur-Marne,  where  Jeanne  had  dealt  with  Eng- 
lish marauders. 

He  stood  with  the  great  round  tower  behind  him,  and 
was  glad  of  the  open  night  sky  and  cool  August  night 
air.  The  underground  dungeons  at  Coucy  were  deep. 
Yet  torches  continued  to  spin  about  the  court,  and  he 
was  guarded,  and  not  housed  as  the  knights  had  been. 
A  hand  gentler  than  the  hands  that  had  stripped  him 
touched  his  arm,  and  there  stood  Brother  Pasquerel, 
fixing  dark  eyes  of  pity  on  him. 

"  We  have  added  prisoners  to  the  English  instead 
of  taking  any  from  them,  Brother  Pasquerel,"  said 
the  chevalier.  His  desperate  laugh  made  the  monk 
sadder.  "  What  will  become  of  my  sister  now  ? " 

"  Think  now  of  thine  own  salvation,  my  son.  The 
hour  has  come." 

"  What  do  they  intend  to  do  with  me  ? " 

Pierre  felt  the  embarrassment  of  not  being  able  to 
take  the  churchman  seriously.  He  said  to  himself, 
"  I  am  to  die  " ;  but  that  seemed  to  matter  very  little. 

17 


258  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

He  knew  nothing  of  death,  though  he  faced  it  every 
day ;  but  that  it  had  arrived  gave  the  moment  a  sting- 
ing novelty,  and  nothing  more. 

"  The  free  companions  in  this  troop  are  permitted 
to  take  revenge  on  you  for  the  man  who  was  turned 
over  to  justice  at  Lagny-sur-Marne,"  said  the  monk. 

"Do  you  understand  their  words,  Brother  Pasque- 
rel?" 

"  I  understand  their  intentions.  But  they  brought 
in  an  illustrious  prisoner,  who  now  waits  in  the  chapel 
for  ransom,  and  he  knows  their  tongue  and  has  told 
me  what  they  say.  The  Archbishop  of  Rheims,  jour- 
neying from  Bourges  to  his  own  diocese,  hath  been 
molested  by  these  lawless  companions." 

"  The  Archbishop  of  Rheims,"  said  Pierre,  "  will  find 
ransom  an  easy  matter  to  arrange  with  his  friends  the 
English.  If  I  were  brother  to  Messire  La  Tr6mouille 
my  head  would  be  fast  enough  on  my  shoulders." 

A  firm-set  head  it  looked,  his  undergarment  being 
stripped  to  the  waist,  showing  the  round  neck  and 
young  pink  brawn  of  the  torso. 

"  You  confessed  to  me  this  morning,  my  son,"  said 
Brother  Pasquerel,  as  Pierre's  elbows  were  grasped  by 
his  executioners ;  and  the  young  man  had  a  solemn 
sense  of  prayers  in  his  ears  as  he  walked  across  the 
court.  At  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  stone  steps  leading 
from  one  of  the  towers  was  a  stone  block  which  the 
knights  of  Coucy  had  used  in  mounting  their  coursers. 
Beside  it  stood  the  free  companion  who  was  to  act  as 
headsman,  his  sleeves  turned  well  back,  and  a  ferocious 
readiness  in  his  face.  His  mighty  battle-ax  would 
have  beheaded  a  bull. 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  259 

Pierre  looked  np  at  the  filmy  sky  and  all  around 
him,  feeling  that  he  had  neglected  giving  to  the  world 
all  the  attention  it  deserved.  This  was  death— this 
coming  withdrawal  from  things.  He  felt  already  far 
away,  but  neither  afraid  nor  regretful.  He  thought 
of  Jeanne,  and  of  one  other,  and  that  reminded  him 
of  saying  a  prayer,  which  he  whispered,  his  young 
features  placid  as  marble,  having  its  fine  heroic  grain. 
Brother  Pasquerel  had  absolved  many  a  dying  man  in 
the  pucelle's  first  campaign,  and  in  her  last,  to  which 
he  had  followed  her  from  Tours.  But  absolving  the 
dying  was  an  easy  religious  task  compared  with  seeing 
the  life  struck  brutally  out  of  this  young  chevalier 
whom  he  loved.  He  had  been  from  man  to  man,  plead- 
ing against  the  slaughter  with  imploring  gestures,— 
forthe  language  of  the  victors  hecould  not  speak,— and 
they  pushed  him  out  of  their  way.  The  Archbishop 
of  Rheims  had  taken  sanctuary,  with  his  frightened 
retinue,  in  the  chapel,  and  Brother  Pasquerel  had 
despairingly  asked  his  intercession,  receiving  an  im- 
patient reply  from  a  prisoner  who  felt  little  interest  in 
the  pucelle  or  her  relations. 

"  The  pucelle  hath  been  taken  in  her  stubborn  pride," 
said  the  archbishop.  "  She  would  not  listen  to  counsel, 
and  it  is  a  just  judgment  that  hath  fallen  upon  her.  As 
for  this  chevalier,  I  have  no  power  to  help  him,  being 
hindered  on  mine  own  journey,  with  all  these  poor 
people.  If  Poton  de  Xautrailles  had  guarded  his  own, 
and  left  the  pucelle  and  her  family  to  their  devices, 
he  could  have  given  me  better  welcome  in  Coucy." 

Torches  showed  the  intent  and  savage  faces  of  their 
bearers  gathered  around  the  stone  horse-block.  Pierre 


260  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

was  forced  to  his  knees.  His  arms  were  tied  behind 
his  back,  and  on  his  naked  breast  from  armpit  to  nipple 
was  ridged  a  clean  red  scar.  The  headsman  spat  upon 
both  palms  with  a  zest  of  anticipation,  and  Pierre 
heard  the  friar's  shaking  voice,  like  a  distant  humming 
of  bees,  as  it  went  on  with  its  office.  He  looked  at 
the  stone,  and  thought  he  would  stretch  his  neck  well 
across  the  hollow  worn  by  feet.  And  then  he  felt  his 
head  seized  by  arms,  and  squeezed  against  the  yield- 
ing bosom  of  a  woman,  and  her  draperies  around  his 
naked  shoulders  and  over  him.  Thus  shut  in  and 
stifled  by  heavenly  odors  like  linden  flowers,  he  could 
hear  nothing  but  her  heart  and  the  rush  of  her  breath. 

His  own  pulses  boomed.  Oh,  this  was  dying— to 
have  all  he  desired  in  life  encompassing  him  as  his 
head  was  about  to  drop !  Though  Pierre  knew  his 
state  was  fixed,  he  laughed  under  Madeleine  Power's 
cloak,  exulting  over  the  English,  and  La  Tremouille, 
and  the  Archbishop  of  Rheims.  It  is  better  to  die  in 
the  full  flower  of  joy  and  effort  than  to  linger  even  a 
little  late. 

The  headsman  rested  his  ax  on  the  stone,  for  he  saw 
there  would  be  a  controversy  with  this  woman ;  and 
the  Archbishop  of  Rheims,  in  wrath,  pushed  through 
the  circle  to  reach  his  niece.  If  these  favored  prison- 
ers had  been  shut  in  a  tower  before  the  execution 
began,  much  trouble  would  have  been  saved.  Yet  the 
new  Captain  of  Coucy,  and  all  his  men,  admired  her, 
standing  her  ground  in  a  whirlpool  of  three  languages. 
For  every  man  in  the  fortress  had  somewhere  a  woman 
in  whose  arms  he  secretly  longed,  yet  scarcely  hoped, 
to  lay  his  head  in  his  last  hour.  Ravaging  and  killing 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  261 

was  their  trade ;  yet  a  woman  might  have  her  way 
with  them,  as  it  had  been  since  the  creation,  and  par- 
ticularly since  Mary  the  Virgin  had  been  lifted  like  a 
lily  over  Christendom. 

"This  man  is  my  betrothed  husband,"  declared 
Madeleine  in  English.  "I  claim  his  life." 

"  Shame  upon  you ! "  spoke  her  uncle  the  archbishop 
at  her  ear. 

"  Let  her  prove  it ! "  shouted  some  of  the  torch- 
bearers,  accustomed  in  their  own  country  to  the  en- 
croachments of  monastic  brethren  on  the  offices  of 
priests.  "  Here  is  the  friar— let  him  marry  them." 

"  Hold  your  base  tongues,"  said  the  new  Captain  of 
Coucy.  "  This  demoiselle  is  niece  to  his  lordship  of 
Rheims,  and  to  the  little  king's  chancellor.  She  is 
not  to  be  wedded  for  a  show  to  men-at-arms." 

"  Off  with  his  head,  then !  There  be  plenty  of  better 
men  to  comfort  the  demoiselle." 

"  He  goes  to  the  dungeon  for  ransom,"  decided  the 
captain.  "  A  brother  of  the  pucelle,  and  nephew  of 
the  chancellor  to  the  little  King  of  Bourges,  should 
bring  good  ransom." 

"  Franquet  d' Arras  was  handed  over  by  the  pucelle 
to  be  beheaded  at  Lagny,"  was  grumbled  under  the 
smoky  glare  of  torches. 

"  Stand  forth,  you  free  riders  who  are  not  satisfied 
with  the  government  of  Coucy,"  cried  the  captain, 
wheeling  in  his  place.  "  By  St.  George,  there  be  cells 
enough  under  this  rock  for  all  of  you !  To  the  dun- 
geon with  this  man,  and  with  every  free  rider  that 
hath  aught  to  say  further  about  Franquet  d' Arras." 

Pierre's  arms  were  released.    He  stood  up  dazzled  in 


262  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

the  torch-light,  and  took  Madeleine  openly  into  them ; 
and  the  archbishop  withdrew  from  the  court,  leaving 
her  to  her  own  devices.  It  had  not  been  at  his  desire 
that  this  half-Scot  was  thrust  on  him  for  discipline. 
He  sent  her  frightened  waiting- woman  after  her— a 
middle-aged  maid,  who  walked  close  to  the  black  skirts 
of  Brother  Pasquerel. 

Chinon  was  like  a  large  inclosed  garden ;  but  Coucy 
was  a  perfect  feudal  castle,  with  central  court  and 
massive  ancient  round  towers.  The  prisoner  and 
Madeleine  followed  the  jailer  and  his  torch  down  a 
winding  stone  staircase.  So  close  were  the  circular 
descending  walls  that  Brother  Pasquerel  and  the  at- 
tendant and  a  warder  following  them  found  the  dan- 
gerous stone  footing  scarcely  wide  enough  for  one; 
but  they  were  not  borne  up  by  angels.  Pierre  and 
Madeleine  walked  side  by  side,  and  his  naked  guard- 
ing arm  grazed  the  rock.  He  thought  of  Bertrand, 
free,  outside  of  Coucy,  and  felt  sorry  for  poor  Bertrand. 

They  reached  the  first  underground  floor  before  they 
remembered  that  they  were  forgetting  to  talk,  and 
this  separation  might  last  for  years. 

"  Come  on,"  urged  the  keeper,  waiting  below,  and 
lifting  his  flambeau  in  the  darkness.  "  We  go  down 
to  the  prisons  beneath." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Pierre  and  Madeleine,  both  drawing  a 
breath  of  relief.  There  would  be  another  flight  of 
heavenly  stairs,  though  the  dungeon  door  waited  like 
the  grave  at  its  foot.  At  this  stage  of  their  journey 
Madeleine  put  her  arm  around  Pierre.  She  slipped 
into  his  hand  and  closed  his  fingers  upon  what  had 
now  become  their  love-token,  the  small  purse  of  coin, 
the  price  of  Jacques  d' Arc's  horse  in  Tours.  France 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  263 

was  an  impoverished  country,  yet  hoarded  money,  an 
unspent  treasure,  thus  passed  from  hand  to  hand. 
The  germ  of  home  went  hid  therein.  Pierre  forecast, 
with  the  happy  certainty  which  brought  good  things 
to  him,  all  the  future  to  grow  out  of  that  seed.  He 
saw  the  fair  white-towered  chateau  he  afterward  built 
in  Orleans,  and  the  worship  there  given  to  this  woman, 
his  wife,  and  to  his  mother,  the  mother  of  the  pucelle. 
For  the  first  time  he  thought  of  Jehannette  without  a 
rush  of  anguish. 

"  At  Bourges  I  could  not  see  you,"  said  Pierre,  im- 
plying how  much  better  it  had  befallen  him  at  Coucy. 

"  At  Bourges  I  began  to  think  of  you  instead  of  my 
father,"  revealed  Madeleine. 

Then  he  remembered  there  was  such  a  person  as 
Louis  de  Coutes,  and  inquired,  as  if  such  a  tie  would 
be  of  trivial  importance  compared  with  this  exag- 
gerated moment: 

"  They  did  not  celebrate  your  marriage  after  you 
left  court?" 

"No,"  answered  Madeleine,  also  slighting  the  sub- 
ject ;  and  she  added  in  simple  explanation : 

"  I  will  never  have  any  husband  but  you." 

"  I  will  never  have  any  wife  but  you." 

"  Here  is  your  cell,  messire,"  spoke  the  jailer  below. 

Pierre  and  Madeleine  clung  together,  and  kissed 
each  other  with  their  first  kiss  at  parting.  The  gar- 
ments which  had  been  stripped  from  Pierre  were  tossed 
into  the  dungeon  by  his  keeper.  Not  a  glint  of  day- 
light would  ever  penetrate  to  this  depth  under  Coucy. 
Once  more,  and  yet  once  more,  they  kissed  each  other, 
and  he  went  smiling  alone  to  the  chain  which  his 
jailer  clanked  beside  the  wall. 


XVI 

HE  lethargy  which  fell  on  France  during 
the  year  Jeanne  d'Arc  lay  in  prison  was 
like  the"  sullenness  of  a  beast  that  has  been 
goaded  to  its  last  effort.  The  momentum 
she  had  given  to  war  being  withdrawn,  the  struggle 
ceased.  Yet  at  that  very  time  the  tide  turned  at  Or- 
leans was  running  out  toward  Britain,  carrying  the 
invaders  with  it. 

From  Beaurevoir,  along  northern  provinces  to  the 
sea,  her  journey  of  captivity  had  been  watched  with 
tears.  When  she  descended  the  coast,  and  Rouen 
Castle  inclosed  her,  the  English  held  her  by  purchase 
from  the  Burgundians.  And  France  slept  on  nearly 
a  quarter  of  a  century  before  rousing  to  demand  what 
had  been  done,  in  the  name  of  law,  with  its  maid  at 
the  end  of  that  year's  imprisonment. 

Other  nations  took  knowledge  that  a  pucelle—  "of 
such  high  chivalry,"  says  a  chronicler,  "  that  there  was 
no  knight  in  Christendom  whose  fame  overshadowed 
hers  "—was  on  trial  among  her  enemies ;  that  she  was 
put  MI  a  cage  in  the  tower  of  Rouen  Castle,  chained 

264 


THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC  265 

with  three  chains,  her  feet  manacled  to  a  log  of  wood 
at  night,  and  common  soldiers  occupied  the  room  with 
a  maid  who  had  veiled  the  life  of  her  body  from  man ; 
that  in  Rouen,  the  real  capital  of  English  France,  it 
was  believed  the  English  would  never  have  any  suc- 
cess in  arms  while  she  lived. 

So  low  had  war-ridden  and  dismembered  France 
sunk  that  not  only  was  French  money  paid  by  the 
English  purchasers  of  the  pucelle,  but  French  men 
were  found,  in  a  corner  of  the  realm,  willing  to  condemn 
her  for  the  English.  Pierre  Cauchon,  the  Count-Bishop 
of  Beauvais,  who  had  resented  some  horse-dealings  of 
her  household,  and  all  of  the  power  so  young  a  crea- 
ture had  acquired  over  armies,  made  himself  her  judge, 
because  she  was  taken  in  his  diocese,  and  allowed  her 
no  counsel  for  defense.  If  the  king  had  moved  in  her 
favor  he  might  have  had  her  tried  at  Rome,  or  Bale, 
where  a  religious  conference  was  then  in  progress. 
She  was  accused  of  intending  to  settle  the  claims  of 
the  three  quarreling  popes. 

Only  one  lawyer  of  Paris  had  the  courage  to  declare 
her  trial  illegal  from  beginning  to  end,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  leave  Rouen  in  haste,  and  betake  himself  to 
a  place  where  he  would  be  safer. 

The  Inquisition  and  the  University  of  Paris  were 
ordered  to  appear  in  the  case  against  her;  but  not 
even  a  priest  was  permitted  to  speak  for  her. 

When  Jeanne  was  at  Beaurevoir,  there  was  a  tale 
told  that  she  fell  from  the  high  tower,  and  was  taken 
up  for  dead,  in  her  frenzied  attempt  to  escape  and  go 
back  to  the  help  of  Compiegne.  But  it  is  not  recorded 
that  Orleans  or  Compiegne,  or  any  other  town,  of- 


266  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

fered  anything  but  processions  and  prayers  for  her 
release. 

The  Archbishop  of  Rheims  issued  from  his  part  of 
the  realm  a  comforting  letter  to  his  flock,  assuring 
them  that  the  maid  had  been  abandoned  as  an  instru- 
ment of  heaven,  but  they  might  count  on  the  shepherd 
boy  from  the  mountains. 

In  Bourges  and  Sully  the  winter  was  merry  with 
cards  and  lute-playing.  There  the  maid,  when  any 
one  thought  of  her,  was  blamed  for  leaving  court  and 
throwing  herself  into  danger.  Perhaps  Queen  Yo- 
lande,  and  of  a  certainty  Agnes  Sorel,  moved  for  her 
ransom.  But  meanness  bred  of  long  poverty  held 
back,  and  the  English  neither  held  back  nor  hesitated 
to  tax  France  for  the  money. 

La  Hire  and  De  Xantrailles  and  her  brother  were  in 
prison.  But  where  were  the  young  Due  d'Alene.on, 
the  Bastard  of  Orleans,  and  all  those  fair  captains  who 
had  followed  her  banner  to  victory  ? 

Seventy  accusations,  finally  reduced  to  twelve  Latin 
articles,  were  brought  against  the  prisoner,  chief  of 
which  were  wearing  man's  clothes,  leading  troops  to 
battle,  pretending  to  have  heavenly  voices,  blasphemy, 
and  witchcraft.  Only  six  public  sessions  were  held, 
but  the  trial  with  closed  doors  dragged  daily  from 
February  until  nearly  the  end  of  May.  An  emaciated, 
fetter- worn  maid,  not  yet  nineteen  years  old,  tormented 
by  endless  cunning  questions,  was  driven  to  recite 
such  matters  as  her  secret  prayer  before  the  court : 
"  Very  tender  God,  in  honor  of  your  holy  passion,  I 
pray  you,  if  you  love  me,  that  you  will  reveal  to  me 
how  I  ought  to  answer  these  churchmen.  I  know  well, 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  267 

as  to  this  habit,  the  commandment  why  I  took  it,  but 
I  do  not  know  in  what  manner  I  ought  to  leave  it  off. 
Be  pleased,  therefore,  to  teach  me." 

Or  she  was  taunted  about  those  voices  of  whom  she 
had  spoken  only  when  necessary  in  her  life.  Or  she 
was  lured  to  confess  sorcery  in  her  victories,  and  an- 
swered indignantly :  "  En  nom  De",  I  did  nothing  but 
tell  the  men  to  go  in  boldly,  and  I  went  in  myself ; 
and  I  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  France  if  I 
did  now  as  I  did  before.  Why  do  not  the  English 
quit  France,  and  begone  into  their  own  country  ? " 

In  Domremy  the  people  waited  some  dreadful  event. 
But  Choux  enjoyed  the  May  sunshine  in  front  of  the 
Widow  Davide's  wine-shop.  He  resorted  there  because 
he  had  long  been  forbidden  to  come  nearer  her  door 
than  the  boundary  of  the  manure-heap.  When  Choux 
encroached  beyond  that  stone  line,  the  Widow  Davide 
made  a  sally  with  water,  which  usually  struck  him  in 
the  face,  and  gave  him  his  only  experience  of  it.  With 
his  woolen  cap-strings  dripping,  he  slapped  his  breast, 
and  danced  before  his  enemy. 

"  Does  the  Widow  Davide  think  she  can  drown  me  ? 
It  is  not  permitted.  Come  out  and  drag  me  again  to 
the  Meuse,  Widow  Davide ! " 

"  Have  a  care,  or  it  shall  yet  be  done,  thou  foul  sor- 
cerer," threatened  the  Widow  Davide.  "Thou  art 
spared  for  Jehannette  d' Arc's  sake,  because  she  hath 
taken  the  tax  off  Domremy  and  Greux." 

"Things  go  better  with  me  than  with  Jehannette 
d'Arc.  Regard  me !  I  have  had  a  voice  above  two 
years,  and  I  am  not  put  in  prison.  I  am  indeed  the 
flower  of  the  Meuse  valley." 


268  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AKC 

"Shut  the  door  against  him,  Haumette,"  said  the 
"Widow  Davide  to  her  daughter.  "  He  will  vaunt  him- 
self until  poor  Jacques  d'Arc  overhears  his  words. 
The  D'Arcs  may  be  ennobled,  and  Jehannette  may 
have  been  a  great  general  riding  with  the  king ;  but 
Jacques  d'Arc  sits  a  broken-hearted  man,  and  she  is  a 
prisoner.  I  see  not  that  the  D'Arcs  are  better  off  than 
I  am.  And  I  bore  much  scandal  from  thy  roving 
summer,  and  the  child  that  Aveline  Laxart  found  by 
miracle  in  the  church  of  Bury-la-C6te  and  killed  by 
over-nursing.  Since  she  hath  found  one  of  her  own 
this  year  without  miracle,  and  can  rest  her  tongue  con- 
cerning St.  Catherine  and  that  other,  it  may  die  out  of 
memory.  But  I  see  not  that  the  D'Arcs,  with  two 
children  laid  in  English  prisons,  are  better  off  than  I 
am." 

Haumette  herself,  gazing  with  chastened  black  eyes 
along  Domremy  street,  and  across  the  interval  to 
Greux,  knew  as  her  mother  did  not  that  hush  of  sus- 
pense, that  martyr-worship  of  the  maid's  family,  which 
hung  over  the  villages.  The  greatness  that  had  flashed 
upon  her,  and  struck  her  for  her  sin,  and  repented  the 
blow  in  one  agonized  look  of  memory  and  tenderness, 
was  stamped  on  Haumette  forever.  She  was  not  sorry 
about  the  child  in  Bury-la-C6te,  there  being  no  ma- 
ternity in  her.  But  she  repented  with  many  prayers 
every  day  on  her  knees  that  she  had  been  unfit  for  the 
touch  of  Jeanne  d' Arc's  sword. 

In  the  May  weather  Mengette  had  the  sense  of  some 
divine,  terrible  presence  on  the  hills,  as  she  led  her 
geese  out  early.  She  looked  down  at  the  church, 
thinking  fearfully  of  St.  Michael.  If  Isabel  had  not 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  269 

needed  her  so  much  during  the  year  her  lonely  life 
would  have  been  unendurable.  But  Jacquemine  d'Arc 
was  now  home  from  Vaucouleurs,  and  she  was  careful 
to  keep  out  of  his  way.  He  looked  at  her  in  church, 
and  he  walked  past  her  house  when  his  work  was  done. 
He  also  sent  his  mother  to  reason  with  Mengette,  and 
to  prove  that  troth  had  never  been  broken  between 
them  by  their  quarrel.  Mengette  listened  to  Isabel 
without  a  word,  and  avoided  Jacquemine. 

He  had  not  fared  very  well  in  Vaucouleurs.  Ger- 
ardiu  d'Elpinal  said  the  people  of  Vaucouleurs  refused 
him  at  sight  as  the  brother  of  the  pucelle ;  but  when 
he  adopted  the  name  of  Du  Lys,  they  rose  up,  and  cast 
their  official  over  the  city  wall.  He  was  needed  at 
Domremy  before  he  came  riding  dejectedly  home ;  for 
Jacques  d'Arc  no  longer  went  afield,  or  even  tended 
the  sheep,  but  sat  always  with  Jeanne's  letter,  written 
before  she  went  into  France,  spread  open  on  the 
table. 

Jacquemine  had  been  home  since  midwinter.  Usu- 
ally when  Mengette  saw  him  approaching,  and  in- 
creased the  space  between  them,  he  turned  off,  or 
retraced  the  way  he  had  come.  But  while  she  was 
watching  her  geese  nip  the  short  May  grass  which 
broke  through  the  white  hill  soil,  he  drew  quite  close 
to  her,  stealthily.  Mengette  left  the  gander  quaver- 
ing at  this  intrusion,  and  walked  toward  the  oak  woods, 
pulling  wool  on  her  distaff  as  if  she  thought  only  of 
spinning.  Jacquemine  followed  her.  She  turned  on 
the  upland,  having  him  at  her  heels ;  and  her  geese 
waddled  in  a  long  line  to  meet  her. 

"  Mengette,"  said  Jacquemine,  "  I  intend  to  come  to 


270  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

speech  with  you  this  day,  wherever  you  may  set  your 
face." 

She  continued  her  walk. 

"  Gerardin  d'Epinal  says  you  do  well  to  be  rid  of 
me,  for  I  am  a  poor  stunted  creature,  and  you  will 
make  a  better  marriage." 

Mengette  turned  upon  him.  "That  is  not  the 
truth." 

She  saw  at  arm's-length  how  wasted  he  was,  and  that 
the  dear  lines  of  his  face,  which  had  been  hers  since 
his  boyhood,  were  stamped  deep  by  care. 

"  I  wish  I  had  not  gone  to  the  vineyard  the  day  we 
quarreled.  I  wish  I  had  never  gone  to  Vaucouleurs. 
Domremy  is  good  enough  for  me.  My  father  is  plainly 
dying  on  account  of  Jehannette,  and  Pierre  also  is 
in  prison.  My  brother  Jean  is  settled  at  Vauthon. 
Whether  my  name  be  D'Arc  or  Du  Lys,  whether  I  be 
noble  or  simple,  I  have  these  old  people  to  feed ;  and 
you  have  Choux.  I  must  take  my  father's  place,  and 
tend  the  fields  and  vineyards." 

All  the  little  jealousies  of  Jacquemine's  life  were 
swallowed  up  in  fraternal  love  and  anguish,  and  a  sob 
almost  rent  his  slight  body. 

"  Oh,  Jehannette !     Oh,  Pierrelo !  " 

Mengette  dropped  her  distaff,  and  wept  upon  her 
own  hands. 

"  But  Choux,"  said  Jacquemine,  still  sobbing,  "  will 
live  forever.  My  mother  counsels  that  we  marry  at 
once,  without  waiting  for  him  to  die.  We  can  take 
care  of  him  together.  If  your  mind  be  not  fixed  on 
making  a  better  marriage,  in  God's  name  put  me  off 
no  longer." 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  271 

"  My  mind  was  never  turned  to  marriage  with  any 
other  man,  Jacquemine  d'Arc." 

He  picked  up  her  distaff,  and  she  took  it,  drawing 
out  a  thread,  and  brightening  over  the  accustomed 
labor.  Long  talk  and  much  spinning,  following  the 
geese  through  the  grass,  seeing  their  own  peaceful 
world  lying  at  their  feet— these  were  the  homely,  sweet 
comforts  which  would  never  come  to  a  man  on  another 
hillside  at  the  opposite  corner  of  France. 

Moist  lush  hills,  holding  Rouen  in  their  lap,  sloped 
skyward,  though  where  the  soil  cropped  out  it  was 
white  like  the  soil  of  the  Meuse  valley.  The  Seine, 
full  of  wooded  islands,  flowed  at  their  feet.  A  little 
later,  cowslips  and  poppies  would  be  showing  through 
the  green — thousands  of  lustrous-petaled  cups  massed 
in  smears  of  yellow  and  crimson. 

The  ocean  tide  came  up  to  Rouen.  Bertrand  de 
Poulengy  watched  the  morning  glint  upon  the  river 
at  intervals ;  but  his  mind  was  fixed  within  the  walls, 
where  the  life  of  the  city  was  spread  below  him,  di- 
minished only  by  distance.  His  horse  grazed  behind 
him  on  the  heights  which  rolled  toward  Bonsecours 
chapel.  He  wore  no  plate-armor,  and  his  lean  body 
shrunk  from  his  hose  and  leather  cuirass  and  short 
tunic  of  chain  mail.  On  his  knees  he  had  spread  out  a 
piece  of  the  linen  banner  Jeanne  d'Arc  carried  through 
all  her  battles.  An  archer  had  cut  it  up  at  Compiegne, 
and  Bertrand's  own  captor  the  more  willingly  divided 
his  fragment  with  his  prisoner  because  he  half  feared 
the  magic  of  the  thing. 

Bertrand  traced  over  and  over  the  city  walls  around 
which  he  had  skirted  helplessly.  The  gray  pinnacled 


272  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC 

mass  of  Rouen  Castle  was  grim  even  in  May-time. 
Bedford  was  lord  of  that  castle,  though  Warwick  was 
Captain  of  Rouen.  Broad  light  upon  hills  and  long 
Seine  valley  showed  one  of  the  fairest  parts  of  Nor- 
mandy. For  here  the  peasant  was  guarded  at  his  labor, 
Louviers,  still  held  by  La  Hire's  garrison,  being  the 
only  unconquered  town  near  by. 

He  noticed  a  bell  tolling  in  Rouen,  and  the  black- 
ness made  by  congregated  people,  even  when  their 
raiment  or  armor  is  bright,  showed  in  one  quarter  of 
the  city  near  him.  It  was  not  very  far  from  the  cas- 
tle's grayness  that  they  were  swarming  together,  and 
after  a  while  a  yellow  glare  struggled  up  in  the  midst 
of  them.  Wavering  and  lofty  rose  a  pillar  of  smoke. 

Bertrand  de  Poulengy  stood  up  with  his  arms 
stretched  behind  him,  the  wrists  back  to  back.  He 
knew  Jeanne  d'Arc  had  not  been  condemned  to  perish 
at  the  stake.  All  the  world  knew  she  was  a  prisoner 
in  Rouen  Castle  yet  undergoing  trial.  But  who  was 
chained  to  the  iron  stake  in  the  market-place  below 
him? 

Bertrand  began  to  feel  the  faintness  of  excessive 
heat,  and  to  breathe  the  quivering  air  which  whirled 
its  white  anguish  around  him.  He  felt  his  clothing 
scorch,  and  the  shame  of  its  cracking  upon  him,  and 
leaving  him  naked  to  cruel  eyes. 

"  Water !  "  he  whispered — "  holy  water !  " 

And  then  the  flames  rose  around  him,  and  he  was 
alone  in  this  red,  stifling  death,  sinking  in  coals  and 
hot  plaster  as  fagots  crumbled,  breathing  flame,  his 
flesh  running  in  liquid  agony,  his  bones  warping. 

"Jesus ! "  he  gasped—"  Jesus ! " 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  273 

And  then  he  felt  himself  drawn  slowly  upward ;  he 
heard  music,  he  smelled  a  thousand  sweet  odors,  as 
numbness  passed  to  gladness,  the  music  became  half- 
distinct  words,  and  he  laughed  in  exultation : 

"  The  voices !  " 

Light  as  air,  he  shot  aloft  from  the  earth,  and  turned 
his  head  to  see,  shooting  up  with  the  same  impulse 
from  the  smoke  in  Rouen,  a  dove.  He  forgot  his  own 
flight,  and  hung  watching  it.  Wi  thout  flutter  of  wings 
or  swerve  of  body,  it  rose  and  rose,  and  was  gone  in 
the  dazzle.  Sinking,  he  watched  in  a  kind  of  trance 
for  that  dove  to  reappear,  remembering  skylarks  on  the 
Vosges  hills,  and  forgetting  that  he  had  ever  suffered. 

Mists  gathered  from  the  void,  and  set  a  lower  sky 
betwixt  the  dove  and  him.  The  emotions  which  come 
like  winds  from  we  know  not  what  hollows  of  space 
to  play  upon  us— poor,  helpless  stringed  instruments 
of  flesh  and  spirit— played  on  him,  and  made  eternity 
around  him.  Bertrand  lay  on  the  hill  overlooking 
Rouen  until  late  afternoon. 

The  rain  with  sudden  little  whip-lashes  cut  him,  and 
water  ran  in  minute  tricklings  around  him ;  the  sun 
broke  out ;  and  the  smoke,  curved  and  driven  into  fan- 
tastic shapes  by  the  wet  air,  again  rose  straight  from 
Rouen,  thinning  to  airy  blueness.  He  was  in  peace, 
as  in  some  divine  ether.  Sometimes  the  breathing  and 
low  grinding  of  his  courser,  the  companion  of  many  a 
long  journey  on  the  earth,  intruded  near  by.  But  the 
horse  was  not  insistent,  like  a  man  who  stood  over 
him,  heavy  shod  in  the  herbage,  shaking  him,  and 
saying : 

"  Bertrand !  Bertrand  de  Poulengy ! " 

18 


274  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'AEC 

He  looked  at  the  man  with  slow  interest. 

"Is  it  thou,  Bertrand?  There  is  little  left  of  thy 
face  except  the  bones  and  blue  eyes." 

"D'Aulon,  have  you  died  also?" 

"  What  ails  thee,  lad  ?  Has  prison  made  a  ghost  of 
me?" 

"  I  think  I  dreamed."  The  young  squire  sat  up, 
and  the  old  squire  sat  on  the  ground  beside  him. 

The  air  was  sweet  after  rain,  and  all  scent  of  smoke 
was  gone.  "With  the  instinct  of  adjusting  himself  to 
what  was  present,  Bertrand  came  forward  in  his  eyes, 
and  examined  his  old  companion. 

"Where  have  you  been,  D'Aulon?" 

"  In  Eouen  prison  this  twelvemonth  past." 

"  Then  you  saw  her.    How  does  she  fare  ? " 

"  Well,  I  trust  in  God,"  answered  the  old  squire. 

"  But  who  brought  you  out  of  Rouen  prison  ? " 

"  The  pucelle's  ransom  money  that  she  sent  from 
Bourges  a  year  ago." 

"Yes;  she  sold  all  her  nags.  She  ransomed  you, 
but  no  one  ransoms  her.  D'Aulon,  did  they  burn  a 
prisoner  in  Kouen  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  heard  so." 

"  Was  it  a  man  or  a  woman  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  woman,  lad." 

Bertrand  looked  down,  and  twisted  his  fingers  in  the 
grass. 

"  Doubtless  it  was  some  poor  old  woman." 

The  other  squire  leaned  forward,  sheltering  his  face 
with  both  hands.  "  No ;  she  was  young." 

"  We  are  used  to  war,  you  and  I,  D'Aulon.  Never 
mind  the  woman  they  burned,  but  tell  me  about 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'AEC  275 

the  pucelle.  Does  she  think  we  have  all  forgotten 
her?" 

"  Would  a  poor  squire  be  allowed  any  speech  with 
the  pucelle,  lad  ? " 

"No— no.  I  never  have  learned,  in  all  my  service, 
how  far  beneath  her  I  am." 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Bertrand,  this  twelvemonth 
past?" 

"  All  over  the  northern  provinces,  trying  to  collect 
robbers  to  attack  Rouen,  since  there  are  no  longer  any 
soldiers  in  France.  You  say  they  burned  a  woman 
to-day.  But  she  was  not  the  age  of  the  pucelle  ? " 

"  About  the  age  of  the  pucelle,"  answered  the  old 
squire ;  and  he  broke  into  groans  and  tears,  bending 
forward  upon  his  knees,  and  weeping  aloud. 

Bertrand  made  no  noise  but  an  audible  swallowing, 
as  if  struggling  for  breath  in  the  midst  of  smoke.  He 
waited  a  long  time  for  the  other  to  be  done  wailing. 

"  They  burned  a  young  maid  alive— a  young  maid 
about  the  age  of  the  pucelle,"  he  resumed.  "  Did  you 
see  it  done,  D'Aulon  ?  " 

"  No,  I  did  not  see  it.  I  could  not  see  a  thing  like 
that  done ;  but  the  streets  were  full  of  weeping  women, 
and  weeping  men,  too,  as  I  came  out  of  the  prison. 
Her  name  was  on  every  side." 

"  Do  not  speak  her  name,"  said  Bertrand,  sharply. 
"  Did  this  young  maid  suffer  long  ? " 

"  I  think  not  very  long,  though  the  pile  was  pur- 
posely built  so  high  that  the  executioner  could  not  reach 
her  to  shorten  her  suffering.  She  had  a  cross  brought 
from  the  nearest  church  and  held  up  where  she  could 
see  it ;  and  she  called  out  for  holy  water." 


276  THE  DAYS  OP  JEANNE  D'ARC 

D'Aulon  still  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  The  priest  stayed  with  her  until  he  was  in  danger 
of  burning  also.  Then  she  made  him  come  down  off 
the  pile.  It  was  afterward  that  she  called  for  water. 
And  the  people  say  she  also  cried  aloud  the  name  of 
Jesus.  No ;  it  was  not  very  long  that  the  blessed  maid 
was  forced  to  suffer ;  for  her  head  soon  fell  upon  her 
breast.  The  flames  took  wonderful  shapes  as  of  wings, 
and  there  were  men  near  who  heard  her  speak  of 
something  else." 

"What  was  it?" 

D'Aulon  looked  aside  at  the  young  squire,  and  whis- 
pered :  "  She  spoke  of  voices.  And  a  soldier  fell  in  a 
fit :  he  saw  a  dove  rise  from  the  fire." 

Both  squires  sat  like  stone,  the  younger  one  with 
an  unwinking  gaze  fixed  on  Rouen.  When  the  sun 
was  gone  he  said,  without  turning  his  head : 

"  D'Aulon,  I  took  your  name  while  you  were  in 
prison.  Whatever  I  did  as  her  squire  was  done  in 
your  name." 

"  Why  did  you  take  my  name  ? " 

"  God  knows.  It  was  my  whim.  She  praised  you 
once.  I  give  it  back  to  you  with  my  horse.  Take  my 
horse,  and  ride  to  Louviers.  You  will  find  friends  in 
Louviers." 

"  By  St.  Martin,  I  will  not  take  the  courser  from 
under  you,  and  leave  you  here  alone  in  sight  of  tliis 
cursed  city." 

"  D'Aulon,  I  never  loved  you.  Would  I  give  you 
my  horse  if  I  needed  it  ?  Respect  a  man's  vows,  and 
begone.  When  I  come  to  Louviers  you  may  give  me 
my  horse  again." 


THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC  277 

"  But  you  are  too  weak  to  walk." 

"  I  have  had  the  pestilence,  but  I  have  strength  to 
walk  as  far  as  I  am  to  go." 

"Let  me  put  you  on  the  courser,  and  fare  beside 
you." 

"  Take  him,  or  another  may  seize  his  bridle  with  less 
right." 

The  shadows  would  overtake  D'Aulon  on  his  peril- 
ous ride.  When  he  was  gone,  the  young  squire  made 
haste  down  to  the  Seine,  and  waited  there  until  a  great 
Norman  horse  came  out  of  the  city  gates,  drawing  a 
cart.  A  haggard  man  walked  beside  the  cart,  and  he 
turned,  and  carefully  backed  his  horse  near  the  water. 
Iridescent  brine  and  the  reflected  rosiness  of  sunset 
made  pools  of  fire-opal  in  the  Seine.  The  tide  was  up. 
When  it  ran  out  it  would  carry  drenched  refuse  of  a 
funeral  pile— plaster  in  which  the  stake  had  been  fixed, 
ashes,  charred  bone,  and  one  great,  darkly  crimson 
clot  like  a  ruby. 

"  Her  heart,  it  was  so  full  of  blood  it  would  not 
burn,"  muttered  the  man  beside  the  cart ;  and  looking 
across  his  load,  he  saw  a  pinched,  blue-eyed  face  at  the 
other  wheel.  The  Norman  peasant  took  off  his  cap  to 
his  superior. 

"Are  you  the  executioner  of  Rouen?" 

"  Yes,  messire." 

"Did  you  burn  a  woman  there  to-day?" 

"  Yes,  messire." 

"  For  what  was  she  condemned  ? " 

"Sorcery,  messire,  though  there  be  many  say  she 
died  a  martyr,  and  ten  thousand  people  wept." 

"  When  was  she  condemned  ?  n 


278  THE  DAYS  OF  JEANNE  D'ARC 

"Early  this  morning,  messire.  God  forgive  her 
judges." 

Bertrand  clung  with  both  lean  hands  to  the  spokes 
of  the  wheel.  "What  was  her  name?" 

"Jeanne  d'Arc,  messire— that  great  captain  of  the 
French  called  the  pucelle." 

Jeanne  d'Arc!— a  splash  in  the  Seine,  a  dissolving 
of  ashes,  a  spread  of  sinking  fragments !  No !  there 
was  a  mightier  presence  in  that  sunset  land.  It  was 
the  time  of  evening  when  she  rode  in  to  her  victories. 

Behind  the  carter's  back,  and  so  quietly  that  his  sink- 
ing made  no  sound,  Bertrand  let  himself  down  into 
the  water,  to  float  with  her  to  the  sea.  He  heard  the 
rush  of  troops,  the  clang  of  armor,  the  crash  of  falling 
walls,  and  a  woman's  voice,— a  leader's  voice,  an  angel's 
voice,— bell-like,  spreading  its  tones  wave  upon  wave, 
until  they  seemed  to  reach  the  horizon,  to  ripple  over 
France  and  around  the  world : 

"  Amys !  Amys !  ayez  bon  courage  !  Sus !  Sus !  Us 
sont  tous  nostres ! " 


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